Take One Breath
by Mallus
Summary: Suddenly, he grabs you, fingers branding your bicep. The two of you stand frozen, twisted together against the wall in some strange, frantic triangle. / Kirk/Spock romance based heavily on canon, Spock's POV.
1. A Small Crush

3/8/2011: Revised estimate of eventual length.

xxx

**Title**: Take One Breath. It was going to be called One Breath, but there are 49 other stories under that title and I like to pretend I'm a special snowflake.

**Short Summary**: Multichapter Kirk/Spock romance based heavily on canon. Spock's POV. There will be at least 10 chapters in this, maybe 12.

**Rating**: This chapter only is K+/PG for male shirtlessness and drug-induced slapping. I am anticipating adult content around Chapter 10-ish—somewhere near the end, at any rate.

**A/N**: This is written in a somewhat odd format, so I guess I should explain, huh? Sections 1, 3, 6, 9, and 11 are third-person and are (mostly) only indirectly based on canon. Sections 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 12, and 13 are second-person (CRAZY I KNOW) and dialogue-based (mostly). All of the dialogue in second-person sections is taken directly from original series episodes because I'm a sucker for canon-based romance.

**A/N for fellow geeks**: Specifics: 2 is from "Where No Man Has Gone Before", 4 and 5 are from "The Corbomite Maneuver", 7, 8, and 9 are from "The Enemy Within", 10 is from "The Man Trap", 12 and 13 are from "The Naked Time". If you noticed that I wrote the episodes into the fic in production order and not airing order, you win a tribble. Please don't feed it too much.

* * *

x 1 x

He flirts with Spock almost constantly.

Captain James Kirk is far from the first human to flirt with him—in fact, he is not even the first human male. The reason for this is obvious. One of the largest factors affecting human mate selection is genetic dissimilarity: humans are biologically driven to select mates outside their kin group, and for this reason, they experience subconscious attraction to that which is exotic. Being half Vulcan, Spock is almost as far from any human's kin group as it is possible to be while retaining fertility.

There is also a sociological component to the behavior. Humans make a practice of flirting with unattainable partners in order to advertise their high mating standards to the rest of the species. Humans also make a practice of flirting out of humor, which Spock does not understand at all, since it is illogical to engage in courtship behavior when one does not intend to mate.

However, it is not illogical enough to prevent Spock from flirting back.

x 2 x

"I'll have you checkmated your next move."

He turns around, he smiles. There is a freckle on the left side of his chin. "Have I ever mentioned you play a very irritating game of chess, Mr. Spock?"

"Irritating...ah, yes. One of your Earth emotions."

He makes his move. His satisfaction feels like the sun on your face. "Certain you don't know what irritation is?"

"The fact that one of my ancestors married a human female—"

"Terrible, having bad blood like that." He never misses his cue, regular as the day.

Let the corner of your lips turn up just a little; tease him when he teases you. Pretend he's gotten under your skin when he takes your bishop. Play the game. Watch him closely. Wonder what he wants from you.

You are not as good at this game as you are at chess.

x 3 x

The Captain always stands too close to Spock. Spock doesn't mind, of course—Vulcans do not "mind" things—but it is unusual. Humans do not usually stand closer to Spock than they have to, even when they are flirting. There are subtle differences in the way Spock's spine curves, the natural angle of his arm, the way he carries his head, that signal he requires a much larger personal space. Most humans read those signs subconsciously and react accordingly, but the Captain doesn't.

When Spock is at his station and the Captain wants a report, he doesn't stay where he is and request it. He comes right up to Spock and stands just behind him, close enough that Spock brushes against him when he stands. When Spock and the Captain walk down a hallway, the Captain's average distance from Spock is a mere 35 centimeters. At first, Spock purposefully kept far to the side in a futile attempt to preserve a more comfortable 56 centimeters between them; but the Captain would just close the distance again to compensate.

This is obviously unintentional on the Captain's part, for he is not the kind of man to make his crew uncomfortable on purpose. But Spock cannot help but notice that when the Captain and Dr. McCoy walk down a hallway together, the average distance between them is 56 centimeters.

x 4 x

"Has it occurred to you that there is a certain...inefficiency...in constantly questioning me in things you've already made up your mind about?"

He leans close. Today, his eyes are dark brown. "It gives me emotional security." The smile in his eyes holds you for one second, two seconds, three seconds until it is simply too much, and you must break away. You are always the first to break away.

He may play the game better, but when he said that, you felt like you were winning.

x 5 x

He fidgets constantly, his hands are clenched behind his back, and he cannot meet your eyes for more than a second. He is incapable of accepting loss. "There must be something to do. Something I've overlooked."

"Chess. When one is outmatched, the game is over. Checkmate."

He finally looks at you. This time it is his disappointment which feels like the sun on your face, and it is the sun of a sharp, angry, Vulcan summer. "Is that your best recommendation?" The venom in his voice burns you. His eyes are still dark brown, and you are still the first to break away, because he will always be much better at this game than you are.

"I'm so—" Cut yourself off. Take one breath. Take another. "I regret that I can find no other logical alternative."

His eyes cut you with their betrayal as he leaves. It takes you a moment to compose yourself enough to return to the scanners.

This is what it feels like to lose.

x 6 x

If Spock could be shocked, Spock would be shocked. In fact, when Spock extrapolates from the current unacceptably emotional state of his mind, he calculates that he will become capable of shock in approximately eight days, and experience shock with regularity in fourteen.

The Captain should not be able to cause such irrational behavior in him with five words and a look. The Captain should not be able to predict that he would request permission to come along before Spock had finished speaking. The fact that the Captain could do the former means that Spock is developing an unacceptable degree of emotional attachment to his superior officer; and the fact that the Captain had done the latter meant that Spock's behavior was becoming predictable on an emotional basis. Both of these facts are profoundly disturbing.

Spock could have dismissed these two incidents as aberrations brought on by stress if he had not caught himself smiling five times in the past week. Fortunately, a Vulcan smile starts in the ears, and humans never saw Vulcan ears, though they noticed them all the time.

There it was again—Spock had felt glad that nobody noticed him smiling. This really was getting out of control.

x 7 x

"Yeah?" His voice is muffled by the bulkhead.

"Mr. Spock."

"Come in." You do so. He is shirtless. It would be illogical for you to be disturbed by this, so you are not. "Yes, Mr. Spock, what is it?"

"Is there something I can do for you, Captain?"

"Like what?" His torso and arms are the same golden color as his face.

"Well, Dr. McCoy seemed to think I should check on you." You try to conceal the crack in your voice by altering your posture.

"That's nice." He approaches you with his familiar rolling saunter. He is the only human you know who can saunter. "Come on, Spock, I know that look. What is it?"

"Well, our good doctor said that you were acting like a wild man...demanded brandy."

He laughs. His bareness has a strange gravity; all the air in the room has been drawn to him. You would find this phenomenon fascinating if it were not so difficult for you to breathe. "Our good doctor's been putting you on again."

"Well, in that case, if you'll excuse the intrusion, Captain. I'll get back to my work."

He removes the shirt around his neck. This startles you, since you failed to notice the shirt was there at all. The muscles in his shoulders ripple. "I'll tell him you were properly annoyed."

"Captain." You leave hastily.

The problem is that you didn't want to leave at all.

x 8 x

His walk is purposeful, decisive, just as it should be. He is standing too close, just as he always does.

"All sections report ready, sir."

"Good." There is a dimple in his left cheek, just above the freckle. "Thank you, Mr. Spock, from both of us."

"Shall I pass that on to the crew, sir?"

"The imposter's back where he belongs—let's forget him." His smile is like swimming in molasses, and he and you are caught together—

He heads back to the captain's chair. Yeoman Rand catches him on the way; what she says is unimportant, and he politely cuts her off. You quickly mute the inexplicable joy this gives you. She continues to you.

"The...imposter had some interesting qualities, wouldn't you say, Yeoman?"

x 9 x

What did the Captain mean? 'If this doesn't work'...what? Spock had nodded and said he understood, but now he knows he hadn't.

At the time, Spock had understood something, just for a second—but then it had slipped away, oil on water. Maybe he had thought the Captain meant 'If this doesn't work, kill me'. Yet if it hadn't worked, the Captain would have died on his own in the transporter. 'If this doesn't work, take over as Captain' was just as illogical a thing to say, since Spock was First Officer and would thus automatically become Captain if the Captain died. Spock could think of other things the Captain could have meant; but 'If this doesn't work, remember me as a whole man' was unnecessary, 'If this doesn't work, take care of the crew' was redundant, and anything else was increasingly implausible.

'If this doesn't work...' then what? Spock was a stone-age aborigine trying to figure out what keeps a spaceship up; Spock was a fish breathing air; Spock was a Vulcan living with a herd of humans who spoke in riddles...

'If this doesn't work...'

What did it mean?

x 10 x

You stride in, you understand the tableau in a second: the creature, transfixed by hunger, and him, transfixed by the creature. His dynamism, his glow, his gravity, his aura of untouchability are all completely gone from him, and it is almost the most horrible thing you have ever seen—but there is no time for horror.

"It's killing the Captain! Shoot it, doctor, quickly!"

"No...no!"

You briefly struggle with the doctor, but just as there is no time for horror, there is no time for a fight. The unreasonable panic building in your chest drives you between the too-still figure and the predator.

"It's killing the captain! Shoot, quick!"

"I won't shoot Nancy!"

"This is not Nancy. If she were Nancy, could she take this?" You aren't really trying to prove your point, all you want is to hit it, to _hurt_ it—

Eventually, the doctor takes his shot and the creature dies. No lasting harm has been done, but you felt your panic, you knew your anger.

When the Captain was threatened, you lost control.

Some of your behaviors are, from the human point of view, very curious. Chief among these is your habit of keeping data tables about yourself, your actions, your motivations; but it is necessary to keep such data, for there can be no logical thought without knowledge of the self. One of these data tables is a list of facts about yourself which you cannot ever afford to forget.

When the Captain was threatened, you lost control. This becomes the twenty-first item on that list.

x 11 x

In retrospect, Spock's shamefully emotional behavior is easy to explain: he has a...'crush'. Once he realizes this, everything else makes sense.

It is embarrassing and inconvenient, but to deny the fact would be irrational. One cannot master emotion without acknowledging emotion. The logical solution is not to attempt to suppress the crush, but to prevent it from affecting Spock's actions. So Spock takes steps.

He is careful not to allow himself to stand, or walk, or sit, closer to the Captain than he always has. He does not ever ask the Captain if he is free to play chess; the Captain has always been the one to initiate, and it will stay that way. He keeps away from the gym between 0700 and 0800 to avoid encountering the Captain shirtless again. However, the strange courtship game that the Captain is playing with Spock must go on, for two reasons.

The first is that if he changes his behavior, the Captain will ask questions that Spock cannot answer.

The second is that Spock suspects his crush would grow stronger if it had no outlet. That is not a favorable outcome.

x 12 x

It hits you in the corridor, right after you leave Nurse Chapel. The corridor undulates before you, as if it is underwater; the echo of the engines pulses sluggishly in your ears. The world is so full of unbearable _feeling_—a black ocean in the mind, bearing down on you—

Take one breath. Take another. Straighten your shirt. This is a thing of the mind, and the mind can be controlled.

"Mr. Spock, would you please acknowledge?" The bridge. You take twelve steps, but the air in your lungs has turned to black tar. Stop in the briefing room; you can't show up sobbing on the bridge, you're no good to them like this, you're no good to anyone, you are not in control of your emotions.

"I am in control of my emotions." 'Control'. One cannot control a flood. Do you remember? 'Earth religions from 1500 CE to 2000 CE'—a Terran called Noah—

"I am an officer. An officer...my duty." Honor thy mother and father, but you sold your mother for control—shall cast them into a furnace of fire—depart from me, you who are cursed—

"My duty is to..." to your Captain, Captain, I'm sorry, I regret that I can find no way out of hell, Captain, no way to, to, to. Two. Two. Four. Six. Six. Six times six...you can't remember what comes next, the ocean came back and the numbers are sinking, they leave a trail of blood in the water, it's time to drown so think of your mother and don't look back

so much blood in the water

x 13 x

somebody is saying something irrelevant over the intercom doors hiss open and you know even with green-from-blood water roaring in your ears that it's him you would know it was him if you were blind, deaf, and incapable of haptic perception

"Where have you been? What happened?"

"My mother. I could never tell her I loved her." you have been to nowhere, where nothing ever happens

"We've got four minutes. Maybe five." he's darkly frantic and full of lightning

"An Earth woman, living on a planet where love, emotion, is bad taste." why are you babbling about your mother when what you really want to say is-

he grabs you, pulls you "We've got to risk a full-power start. The engines were shut off. No time to regenerate them. Do you hear me? We've got to risk a full-power start!" he shakes you, and his lightning burns you through his fingers, a clean pain, a dry pain, centered 2.36 centimeters behind your sixth right rib

"I respected my father, our customs. I was ashamed of my Earth blood—" he hits you, an ugly electric shock. you almost remember what you wanted to say. "Jim. When I feel friendship for you, I'm ashamed."

close, but it wasn't quite right, because if it were, he would not be striking you "You've got to _hear me_!" CLARITY—His hand in yours, caught easily, a life saver thrown to you in your black ocean. Your head breaks the water for the first time in what feels like years. "We need a formula! We've got to risk implosion!"

"Never been done—" You force yourself to let go of his hand—a mistake, the water's back in your ears what was he saying "Understand, Jim. I've spent a whole lifetime learning to hide my feelings."

he hits you again, and it hurts, it hurts so _much_, why does he hurt you—why—and then he's on the floor, and you know it's because you hit him, and—and—_Oh_.

Take one breath. Take another. Cough up the black tar. Shake the bloodied water out of your ears.

"We've got to risk implosion. It's our only chance!" He's practically spitting now.

"It's never been done."

"Don't tell me that again, Science Officer! It's a theory, it's possible. We may go up into the biggest ball of fire since the last sun in these parts exploded, but we've got to take that one in ten thousand chance!"

The intercom chirps. "Bridge to Captain. Engineering asked, did you find—"

"_Yes_, I found Mr. Spock, I'm talking to Mr. Spock, do you understand!" You can see it in his eyes; his black ocean is a lightning storm, and instead of drowning he's on fire. He realizes it at the same time you do. "I've got it, the disease...Love. You're better off without it, and I'm better off without mine. This vessel, I give, she takes. She won't permit me my life, I've got to live hers..."

"Jim."

"I have a beautiful yeoman. Have you noticed her, Mr. Spock? You're allowed to notice her. The Captain's not permitted—" A very small part of your brain is crushed that he thinks she's beautiful. A larger part of your brain ignores the very small part, since Vulcans cannot be crushed. The rest remembers that—

"Jim, there is an intermix formula."

From there it is simple. He rambles a bit more; you give the formula to Mr. Scott; the Enterprise continues on her mission.

You have struck your superior officer. This is the twenty-second item on your list.


	2. A Large Rock

2/16/2011: Chapter was edited. Again, nothing huge; just a little bit of flow adjustment, a detail changed here and there.

xxx

**Rating:** This chapter is rated K+/PG for use of word "sexual".

**A/N:** Format is as before. 1 is from "Charlie X", 3 is from "What Are Little Girls Made Of?", 5 is from "Dagger of the Mind", 7 is from "Miri", 8 is from "Galileo 7", 10 is from "Court Martial", 11 and 12 are from "Menagerie", parts 1 and 2.

10 is expanded from a drabble I did for the "Yellow" challenge in Live Long And Prosper: The Star Trek Challenge forum.

This chapter was completed a mere 4 days after the first. That is probably an anomaly...expect me to be much slower in the future :P

* * *

x 1 x

It only takes him 3.4 seconds to interpret the voices coming over the intercom and decide on a course of action.

"Spock." He gestures to you to follow and strides toward the turbolift. There will be time later to think about his hand brushing yours in his haste.

It is only a short ride down, and Yeoman Rand's quarters are quite near the turbolift. 37.8 seconds later, the two of you enter her quarters. For once, his habit of charging ahead proves to be beneficial—since you were behind him, you can cushion him against the impact when you and he are crushed to the floor. Pain slices through your legs, but you ignore it for now, because in your peripheral vision you see him clutching his stomach.

A slap echoes through the cabin. Yeoman Rand disappears.

"Why did she do that? I loved her, but she wasn't nice at all." Charlie turns, his face both terrifying and terrified. "What you did wasn't nice either. But I still need you, Captain. The Enterprise isn't quite like the Antares. Running the Antares was easy! You have to be nice. All right?" He stares at the Captain wildly, his eyes roll back—

To your left, you hear gasping, wheezing: all the little sounds a proud man makes when he must endure intolerable pain and refuses to show weakness. His little sounds are your own intolerable pain, and the shattered bones in your legs no longer have any importance at all.

The little sounds cease. He rises. "Mr. Spock?"

"My legs—they are broken."

"Let him go, too, Charlie." He sounds remarkably level.

"Why?" The boy quavers.

"Because I'm telling you to. Because you need me to run the ship, and I need him." Even his fury has dignity; his words cut despite their simplicity, for in his voice is the sureness of the sword. You do not dwell on what he said about needing you.

It would be a waste of time.

x 2 x

This is the question Spock will answer:

Does Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the USS Enterprise wish to have a romantic relationship with Commander Spock, First Officer of that same vessel?

This is the information Spock gathers:

There are no Starfleet regulations against romantic relationships between superior officers and those they command as long as the relationship does not interfere with judgement. The Captain has demonstrated upon numerous occasions that he has no personal problem initiating romantic relationships with his crew. Based upon Spock's observations, when the Captain attempts to initiate romantic relationships, he always makes his intentions perfectly clear.

This is the hypothesis Spock forms:

If the Captain wanted a romantic relationship with Spock, he would initiate one.

This is the observation Spock makes:

The Captain has not attempted to initiate such a relationship with Spock.

This is the conclusion Spock derives:

The Captain does not want such a relationship with Spock.

x 3 x

"Something bothering you, Mr. Spock?"

Yes, you want to say, and No, you want to say, but you don't say either; and for the first time in the little game you and he play, you take your turn first. You know you cannot win this game, and the knowledge has made you reckless.

"Frankly, I was rather dismayed by your use of the term 'half-breed', Captain. You must admit, it is an unsophisticated expression."

"I'll remember that, Mr. Spock, the next time I find myself in a similar situation." He gives the barest of slow nods. His mouth is straight and steady, but his eyes are warm and heavy and full of light; and in this moment, though it is unwise, you pretend you are the only thing he is thinking of.

x 4 x

This is the question Spock will answer:

Assume that Captain Kirk of the USS Enterprise wished to have a romantic relationship with Commander Spock. Why would it still be unwise for Commander Spock to engage in such a relationship?

This is the information Spock gathers:

While at Starfleet Academy, the Captain acquired (as humans say) a 'reputation', confirmed by Dr. McCoy. Within Spock's hearing, the Captain has mentioned four different sexual relationships from that period, and six additional relationships between his graduation and his captaincy of the Enterprise. Vulcans have a much stronger inclination toward lifelong monogamy than humans due to their telepathic abilities. Vulcans have lifespans twice as long as humans. The Captain is 2.93 Earth years younger than Spock. The Captain's estimated total lifespan is—

Then he sees the Captain embracing Dr. Noel on Tantalus. Though the Captain was under the influence of the neural neutralizer at the time, Spock finds that his question has still been adequately answered.

Spock adds item twenty-four to his list.

x 5 x

"It's hard to believe that a man could die of loneliness." Dr. McCoy makes one of his usual penetrating observations. You hardly hear McCoy; your subconscious recognition-of-significance algorithm does not grant the doctor any importance. Nothing has any importance except him when his eyes are the color of slow poison and full of broken glass.

"Not when you've sat in that room." Suddenly, he looks to you. Panic flares in your stomach, and his face is a punch in the heart—there are no more words—while you were lost in sentimentality you left your face unguarded and surely he knows now, surely he sees, when you are so naked before him—

He sees. He smiles.

You do your best not to look too euphoric; after all, you have standards to maintain.

"Take us out of orbit, Mr. Spock. Ahead warp factor one." The poison has left his eyes, and you see that they are green today.

"Acknowledged, Captain. Warp factor one."

x 6 x

This is the question Spock will answer:

What would cause a human eye to appear to change color?

This is the information Spock gathers:

92.43% of a human's eye color is determined by six genes located on three different chromosomes. Variations in proportions and amounts of brown, blue, and yellow pigment cause variations in eye color across the species. Changes in eye color can occur in the very young (i.e. the "baby blue" phenomenon) or later in life due to injury (as in most cases of heterochromia) or hormonal change. Eye color can appear to change, but does not actually change, in different qualities of light or when the eye is dilated.

This is the conclusion Spock derives:

Since there is no medical reason to suspect actual eye color change in the Captain, the changes in eye color that Spock observes are illusion, an artifact generated by changing light and the increased significance Spock assigns the Captain's eyes. In simpler terms, his affection for the Captain is affecting his perception of the Captain.

Spock recalls that there is a human saying about affection affecting perception, but he does not remember the precise words. Perhaps he will ask Dr. McCoy about it later.

x 7 x

"And you? The disease doesn't seem to be interested in you." It is a simple question, requiring a simple answer. But you still feel reckless, and you remember the warmth he shone the last time you took your turn first.

"I am a carrier. Whatever happens, I can't go back to the ship..." You look at him through your eyelashes, giddy with daring. "...and I do want to go back to the ship, Captain."

The expression on his face is a year of summer. "Of course, Mr. Spock."

Several days later, you remember to breathe.

x 8 x

He leans on the console behind your station, the lines of his body smooth and near. "There's really something I don't understand about all this, and maybe you can explain it to me—logically, of course. When you jettisoned the fuel and ignited it, you knew that there was virtually no chance of it being seen, yet you did it anyhow. That would seem to me to be an act of desperation."

"Quite correct, Captain."

"Now we all know, and I'm sure the doctor will agree with me, that desperation is a highly emotional state of mind. How does your well-known logic explain that?" He is always too close to you, but in this moment, he is _too close _to you, and you know before you reply that your answer will be entirely unsatisfactory even by human standards.

"Quite simply, Captain. I examined the problem from all angles, and it was plainly hopeless. Logic informed me that, under the circumstances, the only possible action would have to be one of desperation. A logical decision, logically arrived at." Even as you say it, it sounds weak. You sound more confident to compensate.

A soft tutting noise comes from behind your left shoulder. "You mean that you reasoned that it was time for an emotional outburst?"

"Well, I...wouldn't put it in exactly those terms, Captain, but those are essentially the facts." You can feel him gazing at you as your tongue stumbles, and you know without looking that you would think his eyes were light brown.

Then he _leans._ You were wrong before; _now_ he is too close. His arm wraps around your chair, and if you were to lean backward 3.21 centimeters, he would be holding you.

It is quite difficult not to lean backward.

"You're not going to admit that for the first time in your life, you committed a purely human, emotional act?"

It's all you can do to recognize the statement as a question. You pick out 'admit' and 'emotional' and somehow you fill in the blanks and give him an answer. "No, sir."

He chuckles. "Mr. Spock, you're a stubborn man." He has a voice like honey—

He is close enough to kiss you—

"Yes, sir."

You are a very stubborn man.

x 9 x

Spock is dangerously close to falling in love. This is an unacceptable state of affairs.

He is betrothed, and the seven-year cycle is due to end in less than a year; that alone is sufficient reason, but there is a second reason, better even if it is not more logical: if he falls in love with the Captain, he would never fall out again. He would lose himself in the Captain, would become nothing more than his shadow or his right hand, and love would make him happy in servitude. There would be no more Spock. There would only be the Captain, and the purpose the Captain gave him.

This is not disturbing because Spock wishes to be successful in his own right, for he is not ambitious by nature. It is disturbing because he knows he can be more, he knows he has a duty to be more. To be Spock, to live as Spock, to die as Spock—because ownership is not a state that a free being can tolerate and remain sane.

The doctor told him what the phrase was: 'Love is blind.' (When Spock asked, McCoy was practically gleeful at the thought that "Satan's green-blooded bastard child" might have succumbed to human frailty.) Spock does not wish to succumb to human frailty. He does not wish to be blind, or insane; he does not wish to live in eclipse, or become one half of a pair of resonator coils. He only wants to be Spock. And he cannot be Spock with—

Though he sometimes speaks it with his tongue, here in his mind, he cannot say the Captain's name.

x 10 x

"In your opinion." She speaks softly, but insistently. You know that her side is the logical victor, and she knows that you know it, despite what you say about hammers and natures.

Yellow alert. An impossible state.

You think it is almost poetic. Yellow is a false color, though it is his color; today he is embroidered in it, sitting stiffly in the back of the room in his dress uniform. The people of Earth had a curious phrase that went out of fashion in the twenty-first century—"yellow-bellied", to indicate cowardice—and the people of Vulcan have a phrase even more curious, "yellow in the ears", to indicate irrationality. It might have something to do with blood flow to the head.

Perhaps your ears are yellow, but at least your belly isn't. It does not follow from your defense of him that you are in love with him, and it does not follow from your justification of your defense that you are in denial.

"Yes." You say it to Lieutenant Shaw with surety, as if you were proclaiming that the entropy of an isolated system tends not to decrease. "In my opinion."

It is only your opinion, just as gravity is only a theory.

x 11 x

"Do you know what you're doing?" He sounds deceptively gentle, but his eyes are full of broken glass again. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Captain. Jim. Please. Don't stop me. Don't let him stop me. It's your career, and Captain Pike's life." He watches you, uncomprehending and betrayed. "You must see the rest of the transmission."

He looks at you as if you were the worst sort of traitor, as if he had found his wife in bed with a Romulan. The urge to tell him you are sorry, to yield before his fire as you have always done, sweeps over you and leaves ash in your mouth—but it is fleeting and quickly suppressed, and you do not give.

Instead, he gives.

If this is winning, you do not want it. Though this is temporary and you know he will forgive you—that in fact, his forgiveness is irrelevant—though the court-martial is a sham and the danger an illusion, you still do not want it, because if he gives, it cannot be winning. When he gives, it is somehow _wrong_.

"Lock him up."

Go quietly to your holding cell. Choose the good of the many over the good of the few. Choose sight over blindness and honor over insanity; you know that your duty is to more than him. This is not a difficult decision.

Take one breath. Take another. See? It hardly hurts at all.

x 12 x

"Mr. Spock, even if regulations are explicit, you could've come to me and explained." He is chastising you, and therefore you are still under his command, and therefore it no longer hurts for your heart to beat.

"And asked you to face the death penalty, too? One of us was enough, Captain."

The intercom chirps. He goes to answer. It is unnecessary to follow him, so you don't. "Yes."

"Message from Starbase Eleven, sir. Received images from Talos Four. In view of historic importance of Captain Pike in space exploration, General Order Seven prohibiting contact Talos Four is suspended this occasion. No action contemplated against Spock, proceed as you think best, signed, Mendez, J.I., Commodore, Starbase Eleven." He does not smile, but it is a close thing.

He goes to Captain Pike. "Chris. Do you want to go there?" Captain Pike indicates in the affirmative.

"Mr. Spock. Would you care to take Captain Pike to the transporter room—see him off?"

"Thank you, sir, from both of us." You move to the door; he calls to you.

"Mr. Spock. When you're finished, please come back and see me. I want to talk to you. This regrettable tendency you've been showing lately towards flagrant emotionalism-" He is already playing the game again, as he is resilient and forgiving.

"I see no reason to insult me, sir. I believe I've been completely logical about the whole affair." You only say it to see him smile. Indeed, as you leave the room, you feel the gentle warmth of his satisfaction as sunshine on your back. It is illogical to hope that it can ever be the same after your deception. This does not prevent you from hoping.

x 13 x

Once, as a very young child, Spock asked his father Sarek why his mother did not think the same way that they did. This is how Sarek explained the difference between Vulcan emotions and human emotions to him:

Imagine a pond, wide and shallow, an average of 0.6 meters deep and 30 meters in diameter. Such a pond would hold approximately 424 cubic meters of water, which is actually not very much.

Now throw a rock the size of your head in. Yes, it's heavy, but you can do it. Visualize the result. You should get a fairly large splash; but you probably only got a little wet. Look at the surface of the water—do you see the ripples? They fade fairly quickly, don't they?

Now, pretend there are two of you, on opposite sides of the pond, throwing identical rocks in at the same time. Both of you get wet from the splash, but I want you to look at the ripples. See how the two sets of ripples interfere with one another in the middle? The net ripple effect in the area of overlap is smaller and more unpredictable. Perhaps the ripples spread across the whole pond, perhaps they dissipate before reaching the edge; but at any rate, they are quickly gone.

The pond is a human mind. The rocks you threw were emotional stimuli. The effects of the rock on the pond—the ripples you saw—were emotion. The human mind processes many emotions at once; there is some interference and overlap between the emotions, so humans sometimes behave unpredictably. Their emotions expend themselves quickly, as ripples do. The mind-pond is elastic because of its shallow nature, quickly calmed and easily agitated. It is very difficult for one emotion to completely consume the mind-pond because of its breadth. It would take a very big rock, indeed, to agitate the entire pond.

Now, forget the pond. Imagine a well, narrow and deep; the surface is one meter in diameter and the depth is 540 meters. Such a well would hold approximately 424 cubic meters of water—the same as our pond. The walls of the well are one meter high.

Drop a rock the size of your head in...

Stop laughing, child—do you think I can't see your ears? It's a mental exercise, you're not actually soaking wet.

The splash was huge, wasn't it? The waves the rock generated were contained and channeled by the well walls; and because the well is deep rather than broad, the rock, in its path to the bottom, easily affected all of the water in the well.

The well is a Vulcan mind. The rock, as before, was an emotional stimulus. Because of the depth and relative narrowness of the well, the rock-emotion disturbed much more of the 424 cubic meter volume than it did in the pond. Thus, one sees that the effect of a single emotional stimulus on a Vulcan is much greater than the same stimulus on a human. A single emotion can completely consume a Vulcan mind, and by the same token, it takes longer for a Vulcan to recover from an emotion. Dropping two rocks in would increase the violence of the splash, but the splash is so unpredictable to begin with that there is no appreciable difference in the behavior of an untrained Vulcan confronted with two stimuli and an untrained Vulcan confronted with one.

Your mother is human, and therefore her emotions are not as violent or dangerous as ours. You did not get nearly so wet when you threw the rock in the pond as you did when you threw the rock in the well, is it not so? That is why we have the mental conditioning, my son. Emotional control is a roof on the well; logic is the bucket that draws the water up in an orderly fashion. Logic is what keeps us from getting other people soaking wet.

His father's analogy is the third item on Spock's list.

x 14 x

Spock is trying very, very hard to keep the roof on his well from buckling in under the pressure of the Captain's emotional stimulus. This task is made more difficult by the fact that the Captain is not a rock the size of Spock's head.

The Captain is a rock the size of a star.


	3. An Airborne Pig

**Rating:** This chapter is rated K+/PG for harmless fluffy touching. I don't know why I even bother.

**A/N**: Just a heads-up: Chapter 4 will be an intermission-type chapter, written in a **radically** different format. And by "radically", I mean "Instead of this crazy second-person, many-short-sections nonsense, I'm going to experiment with a nice, normal, third-person POV split into traditional paragraphs." Expect Chapter 4 by...hmm...February 4? Different style = unpredictable completion time.

**Section List: **2 is from "Shore Leave", 4 is from "The Squire of Gothos", 5 and 7 are from "Arena", 8 is from "Return of the Archons, 10 is from "A Taste of Armageddon", 12, 13, and 14 are from "Space Seed". 1 and 3 reference, but do not quote, "Shore Leave". 6 references, but does not quote, "Arena".

* * *

x 1 x

Every time Spock touches the Captain, there's always an excellent reason for it.

When the ancient Earth plane made its strafing run, it was necessary to ensure that the Captain was out of harm's way as quickly as possible. Even if one assumed that it had not actually been essential to take the Captain's wrist and pull him to shelter, Spock had only done so after the Captain had wrapped an arm around Spock's chest. If the Captain was the one to initiate such behavior, it couldn't be inappropriate; after all, the Captain was not the one who was emotionally compromised.

Besides, Spock had been running for his life. He had not had time to notice how the Captain's wrist bones felt when they moved under his fingers, or the gentle pressure of the Captain's hand on his right side, four centimeters away from his heart.

x 2 x

"No, Mr. Spock, I'll go, you—" He seems to forget what he is saying. He looks beyond you, happily, almost dreamily. "On the other hand...I'll stay, for a day or two."

At first, you are only confused. Then you turn around and see a woman, her dress billowing rather ridiculously as she approaches. She's not even a woman, just a girl, and a manufactured one at that; but he walks off with her without looking back.

A few days of shore leave would be highly beneficial for him. It would be irrational for you to be irritated, so you aren't.

x 3 x

Spock might not completely understand humans sometimes, but a child could have seen through the Captain's astonishingly shameless display on the Bridge. Their odd little game of verbal pseudo-flirtation had been going on for seven months and five days, and evidently the Captain felt that was long enough to attempt to escalate the game into physical pseudo-flirtation. To Spock, it doesn't make any more sense now than it did seven months and five days ago. He still has very little idea of what the Captain intends to accomplish by falsely engaging him in courtship rituals.

Spock's best theory so far is that he finds it amusing to attempt to elicit such non-Vulcan behavior from him; but even though it's the best theory, it's still a poor theory. If he were the kind of man who thought it was amusing to provoke others, he would not be a very good Captain...and he is an excellent Captain. Had the Captain had attempted to trick Spock into touching him six months earlier, Spock might have concluded that he was trying to seduce him. As it is, all evidence suggests that the Captain favors a much faster, more direct approach. Spock's earlier conclusion about the matter still applies: if the Captain wanted a romantic relationship with Spock, he would initiate one directly, and since the Captain has not initiated one directly, he does not want one.

Spock would like a better theory about the strange game they play, but he cannot form a better theory without obtaining more information. He cannot obtain more information without risking exposure of his feelings for the Captain. He cannot be sure his feelings will not be exposed unless he can act upon a better theory.

Logical contemplation of a problem has never before failed Spock so spectacularly.

x 4 x

"Oh—wait! As the one challenged, I claim the first shot."

"We shoot together." It is a threat, thinly veiled as a suggestion. He has the least patience when he has the least control. You do not think, _in this way, we are the same_; this is not the time or place for such thoughts.

"It's my game, and my rules! But if you need to be persuaded..." And the pistol swings to you.

It is not the threat of death which worries you most; it is that he may give in if you are threatened. (He would give in for any of the crew, you tell yourself firmly.) He will lose the advantage of the first shot. He will gamble with his life.

That is...unacceptable.

He looks at you once, too quickly, and says what you knew he would say. "Alright."

"Captain."

A quick shake of the head. His eyes dart to you, bright as cinnabar. He has a plan, and he has your trust; that will have to be enough.

Later, you wonder why Trelane chose to threaten you, and not any of the other crew. It must have simply been because you were closest.

x 5 x

You are not worried about him. There is no knot in your gut.

"They're moving. I've got to get to the Captain."

11.2 seconds of hammering explosions and rolling earth later, you are at his side. You pretend the loosening of the nonexistent knot in your gut is a second-stage reaction to prolonged stress.

"I've locked on to the enemy, Captain. They're moving toward the high ground." There's a strange hissing. "They've locked onto my tricorder."

The tricorder is thrown and explodes at a safe distance. For not the first time, you are glad that your sense of smell is not nearly so sensitive as a human's. Polyetheon plastic releases a terrible odor when burned. "Very ingenious. They fed back my own impulses and built up an overload."

"We'll see how ingenious they are—here, give me a hand with this grenade launcher. Lang!"

Your fingers feel clumsy, as if half the joints in them had disappeared. Every time he takes a breath, his shoulder brushes against yours. Thankfully, he does not notice your awkward posture, or how it takes you a beat too long to move when your hands are in his way. "Any word from the Enterprise?"

"Sulu's taken her out of orbit." He tries to sound nonchalant. He fails.

Kelowitz tumbles in. "They've got Lang, sir."

"Did you see them?" His tension radiates through your shoulder and face. There are 2.85 centimeters of air between him and you; but those 2.85 centimeters feel like nothing at all.

x 6 x

The Captain really is a brilliant man, although his brand of brilliance is much too unpredictable for Spock's taste. He thinks in jumps, in missed steps and intuitive leaps, with the in-between process perceived only as a vague misty flash. However, one cannot deny results.

Only one man in 1,558 would have even recognized the chemical ingredients present on the Metron's planetwide arena, and less than one man in 17,126 would have been able to assemble a crude cannon out of those ingredients. It was certain that no crewmember aside from Spock had made the connection, even though the Captain was on-screen to demonstrate. It is possible that the Captain himself had not even fully thought it out, though he realized how to do what was necessary; perhaps the idea of gunpowder had simply sprung into his head fully-formed, an inverse Athena.

Spock finds the Captain's thought process fascinating to observe, because Spock carefully contemplates every in-between step. They are what prevent his method from becoming madness.

He is sure that if his mind worked like the Captain's, it would make him insane.

_in this way, we are the same_

He is not sure that he is not insane.

x 7 x

"Yes, Mr. Spock?"

"You mean to destroy the alien ship, Captain?"

"Of course." His mouth is thin and soft, set in a face steady as a thundercloud.

"I thought perhaps the hot pursuit alone might be sufficient. Destruction might be unnecessary." You chose your words carefully; his voice still hardens.

"The colony of Cestus Three has been obliterated, Mr. Spock." The softness in his mouth peels away like a rotten skin.

"The destruction of the alien vessel will not help that colony, Jim."

"If the aliens go unpunished, they'll be back, attacking other Federation installations." His eyes warn you not to push. You push.

"I merely suggest that a regard for sentient life- "

"There's no time for that!" Lightning strikes, a wave of needles washing against your skin: the blunt, bright fury that hid behind the thunder. He rises and paces around to you. "It's a matter of policy. Out here, we're the only policemen around. And a crime has been committed. Do I make myself clear?"

"Very clear, Captain."

"I'm delighted, Mr. Spock." His dismissal hurts more than his lightning ever could.

x 8 x

"Marvellous."

"What?" All his attention shifts instantly to you.

"The late Landru, Captain; a marvellous feat of engineering. A computer capable of directing the lives of millions of human beings." His eyes wander openly across your face, for he is shameless; a force of nature cannot feel shame.

"But only a machine, Mr. Spock. The original Landru programmed it with all his knowledge, but he couldn't give it his wisdom, his compassion, his understanding...his soul, Mr. Spock." He arches his eyebrows invitingly. He makes your name sound like a term of endearment.

"Predictably metaphysical. I prefer the concrete, the graspable, the provable."

"You'd make a splendid computer, Mister Spock." His words ring in your ears like laughter.

"That is very kind of you, Captain."

Then you understand why humans sometimes call smiling 'beaming'.

x 9 x

Of all the sentient individuals that Spock is acquainted with, the Captain knows him best. He finishes Spock's sentences. He can find Spock when Spock does not want to be found. He is one of three humans who has ever beaten Spock at chess, and the only human to beat Spock more than once.

Once, the Enterprise attended a diplomatic conference on the space station Prisk 2. There was a celebratory dinner on the final night of the conference. Spock had been engaged in conversation with a Bolian ambassador when he noticed that the ambassador had a habit of fingering an odd bracelet he wore.

In an attempt to observe the bracelet more clearly, he had shifted 5.2 centimeters to the left. The Captain had seen him move, and from that one tiny detail had deduced that Spock suspected the ambassador was wearing a bomb. The only problem with that particular deduction of the Captain's was that Spock had not yet formed an opinion about the cause of the Bolian ambassador's habit.

The Captain had known what Spock would think before Spock had thought it, just because he had seen Spock alter his posture. It is a disquieting sensation to feel that there is someone who knows one better than one knows oneself.

Spock didn't think it was possible that his body language was the only evidence the Captain needed, so he asked the Captain what other evidence he had for the Bolian's bomb. The Captain hesitated for a moment, then said that the ambassador had been moving stiffly, almost cautiously. He also mentioned that he heard the ambassador laugh nervously when the Andorian delegate made a joke about explosions in space.

Bolians have a propensity towards joint disease. Bolians are also quite pyrophobic. Both of these facts are known to the Captain. Spock pretends that the Captain simply forgot.

In all likelyhood, the Captain actually did forget. If he had remembered that Bolians are prone to joint disease and pyrophobia, he would have made up a better lie.

x 10 x

"I had a feeling that they would do anything to avoid it, even talk peace."

"A feeling is not much to go on."

"Sometimes a feeling, Mr. Spock, is all we humans have to go on." The invitation is almost audible: take your turn, Mr. Spock, or I'll have you mated in two moves. The pun, Mr. Spock, is of course intended.

"Captain, you almost make me believe in luck." You say it as formally as possible, with an almost resigned air, to counteract its extreme sentimentality. His cue has been given, your move is finished; perhaps you will come out ahead this round—

"Why, Mr. Spock, you almost make me believe in miracles."

You could think in metaphors now; but if you did, the only thing you could possibly compare his face to is the brightness of a thousand suns, and you are above such terrible cliches.

It is one thing to know that he is a force of nature, and is thus shameless. It is quite another thing when he proves it. Someday, he'll say something like that and your heart won't remember how to start beating again.

x 11 x

It's a shameful thing, to be so affected by so little. It's a shameful thing to be affected at all—but if one cannot avoid feeling, the cause must be sufficient. The Captain is not a sufficient cause. He is only one man, not many; his needs will always be outweighed. There is a 34.4% chance that eventually, Spock will be forced to choose between the needs of the Captain and the needs of others. When that time comes, Spock must be able to choose correctly.

Once this would not have worried him at all. Before his service with the Captain, a choice between few and many would not have been a choice any more than it is a choice to inhabit a body composed of matter. The only possible decision would have been the logical decision.

Yet Spock knows that his logic has proven to be uncertain where the Captain is concerned.

His biggest mistake so far has been allowing their strange game to continue. Instead of serving as an outlet for his feelings, it only exacerbated them; thankfully, this has hurt no one but Spock. To the best of his knowledge, he has not yet brought permanent harm to any of the crew as a result of his inappropriate feelings.

However, as long as he does not institute precautions, he is a dangerous individual.

Vulcans can go for a week without sleep with no adverse effects. Spock spends the next five night shifts reading his old mission logs and watching security camera footage of himself.

x 12 x

"One man would have ruled eventually. As Rome under Caesar. Think of its accomplishments." The superman is as excellent at acting as he is at everything else, and his face stays smooth and open; but Khan's eyes are curiously flat, unnaturally shallow. He is a drawer with a false bottom.

Though you are the one addressing Khan, Khan only pays attention to him. "Then your sympathies were with—"

"You are an excellent tactician, Captain. You let your second in command attack while you sit and watch for weakness."

It is not the time, and it is not the place, but before you can catch it, a small thought gently drifts to the surface of your mind, and you know: _yes. That is what I am. That is what I do. That is what he and I are together._

"You have a tendency to express ideas in military terms, Mr. Khan." He is quiet, gentle as ice. His words bring the silence of a winter morning. "This is a social occasion."

"It has been said that social occasions are only warfare concealed. Many prefer it more honest, more open."

"You fled. Why? Were you afraid?" The ice cracks, a sharp but distant thunder.

"I've never been afraid." Khan looks away, takes a drink.

"But you left at the very time mankind needed courage."

"We offered the world order!" Khan slams his palm against the table, and for a heartbeat one can see what the false bottom concealed: the howling fury of springtime in Hades.

"We?" He slides into that heartbeat smoothly, voice low in victory; but Khan is too clever to slip again.

"Excellent. Excellent." Slowly, he smiles, then rises to his feet. "But if you will excuse me, gentlemen and ladies, I grow fatigued again. With your permission, Captain, I will return to my quarters."

x 13 x

"Engage the viewing screen, please."

Lieutenant Uhura merely stares. You have the impression that if she were not too furious to speak, she would be too scared to speak. One of Khan's men, Joaquin, seizes her and strikes her; every crewmember in the room makes a reflexive attempt to aid her. He raises his arm again.

"No!" McGivers cries out sharply; Joaquin's arm slowly lowers. The briefing room is utterly still. Khan sighs.

"I should have realised that suffocating together on the Bridge would create heroic camaraderie among you. But it is quite a different thing to sit by and watch it happening to someone else. Engage the viewing screen."

The Captain is in the decompression chamber.

Take one breath. Take another. You have ninety seconds before he is dead; start counting.

"I'm sure you recognize your medical decompression chamber here, Doctor, and the meaning of that indicator." Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. "Your Captain will die." Khan pauses, presumably for dramatic effect. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. A plan, you need a plan—

"If you join me, Mister Spock, I will save his life."

In a vague, detached sort of way, you feel relieved that you do not find Khan's offer even remotely tempting. In a violent, immediate sort of way, you desperately need to tear Khan apart with nothing but your teeth.

Plan A: Kill Khan with teeth. Proceed to decompression chamber. Objections: Only 1 in 9,644 chance of success. Implement Plan A only if better plan has not been found in twenty-five seconds.

It is terrible as a plan, but it is some comfort to imagine.

Thirty-three.

"My vessel was useless. I need you and yours to select a colony planet. One with a population willing to be led by us." Plan B: Offer Khan cooperation. Lie. Objections: Good for the short-term, bad for the long-term. 10 in 11 chance that this would end in whole crew's death.

(Item twenty-five: You are willing to lie for the Captain.)

"To be conquered by you. A starship would make that most simple, wouldn't it?" Dr. McCoy, please _cease speaking_—

Forty-seven. Forty-eight.

"Each of you in turn will go in there. Die while the others watch." Plan C: Get Khan to take you next. Once in the decompression chamber, disable the guard and release the Captain. Objections: None. Begin implementation.

Fifty-six.

"Khan. There's no reason I must watch this, is there?"

He shakes his head; his voice is hard. "But I hoped you would be stronger." McGivers leaves. Seventy-one. Seventy-two. "If any one of you joins me, anyone! I'll let him live. It's so useless!"

Ninety. Perhaps you have been counting too fast; you are under duress, after all. Seventy-five.

"We've lost the channel. How do I regain picture?"

Ninety again. You struggle not to implement Plan A.

"It does not matter. The Captain is dead. Take Mister Spock next."

One-hundred-four. He may still be alive. Pigs can fly if their environment has a sufficiently low gravity.

x 14 x

You pinch the guard; and if you apply slightly more pressure than his nerves require, well, it has been a very trying day, and you are in a hurry. "Surprised to see you, Captain, though pleased."

Very pleased, indeed.

x 15 x

The Captain is a pig in a low-gravity environment.


	4. A Hexagonal Room

**Rating:** T for blood. Lots of it. Also, passing mention of nudity (don't get too excited, it's not Kirk or Spock.)

**A/N:** You know how one of the oldest Trek fics in the book is "Kirk and Spock are trapped in a cold environment and must share body heat, then sex ensues"? Well...this is the dark side of that.

Dear readers, you FINALLY get some answers as to just why Spock is re-experiencing his entire service period with Kirk in chronological order. Not many, but some. Also, aside from the concept of Star Trek and the original Star Trek characters involved (duh), I made up this whoooole chapter. It turns out that making stuff up is a lot harder than it looks. GO FIGURE.

**A/N 2:** Just when you got used to the second person...I change everything! (insert obligatory evil laughter here) Normal second-person-canon-scene-interpretation format will resume with Chapter 5.

**P.S.: **Lieutenant Gardener from Ostry is named after StoryGardener, because StoryGardener, who gave me my first ever review, has most fantastically read and reviewed everything I've published here. I also want to thank Burning Phoenix, geriatricfool, vegetaworshipper92, droopydog, Id, shatfat, Wilson Timothy Garcia, and probablyquantum, because all of you have reviewed this freakazoid story, and are thus AWESOME.

* * *

The Evaluation of Animal _Abbb'x_ D388  
(Group number: 6,374)

The room is six-cornered and colored a dull wintry white. Five of the six walls are covered in shelves, hooks, oddly-shaped jars, and twisted metallic fingers; the last is an elaborate fractal mosaic, made of tiny glass hexagons.

At first, it is hard to tell exactly how big the room is, for there is nothing in it familiar enough to provide a point of reference. The room's inhabitants—three pale, spindly creatures that vaguely resemble skeletal centaurs—could be two feet tall or ten. They are crowded around a small table in the center of the room, gesturing delicately at whatever is on it.

One of the creatures uses a three-fingered arm to press some kind of sequence into a panel on the fractal wall. Now that the creature has moved, the table is visible. There is a figure lying limply on it, dressed in black and blue. The scale of the room slides abruptly into place: the centaur-creatures must be at least twelve feet tall, for the figure, who is some sort of humanoid alien, looks as small as a toddler.

The fractal wall flickers into lurid, jarring life, and in this washed-out room, the colors are overwhelming. The other two creatures leave the table to watch the glowing mosaic, which is apparently some sort of viewing screen. The screen resolves with a swirl into the brilliant image of a man in gold crouching in the dirt, doing something with a black canister. The image jerks between the black canister on the ground, a faded smoky sky, and the man in gold. Every few seconds, the screen flares and pops, converting the image into super-saturated indigo, green, or scarlet.

After a few moments of observation, one of the creatures remarks, "Definitely an animal species. Look at the _vrghhh_ quality of his _tytta_. We should _kant t'kant _one of _to murrga_."

The second one twitches a padded foot. "_Tytta_, nothing—he's flaring all over the _em'ju_. Obviously _u_ of _itth'thkk'ju _conglomeration. He'll need a monitoring chip."

"Of course."

The screen dissolves for a moment, then returns with the flashing picture of a harsh, dark-skinned human male with long black hair. The creatures watch the disjointed shapes on the screen for a minute longer. The third, who might be slightly less spindly than the other two, shifts restlessly.

"Noticed something, Wu-pben?" asks the second creature. Its voice is like a horn blowing over dry grass.

Wu-pben rolls its torso hesitantly. "It's just...most of the _silz_ look the same. _Tin em'dou yu gzilth'x_, and he's always _em'dou_ indigo when that _silz_ flares up. Perhaps he's not an animal."

"Oh—that's only animal _jontte_. Don't anthropomorphize. We've already confirmed _to_ _abbb'x_ fails the Fivefold Test," the first creature hoots dismissively.

The fractal screen fades into something blurred, grainy, and dark gray. The first creature fiddles with a dial on a panel, but the image only seems to blur more; then the view pans to reveal eleven figures wearing snowsuits, and it becomes apparent that the screen is showing the memory of a snowstorm.

* * *

—

The Captain has to shout to be heard over the raging wind. "Keep a sharp eye out for Dr. Wilson's crevasse, and try not to fall into any yourself. Everybody clear on blizzard search and crevasse rescue procedures? Everybody has a tri-grip and a tricorder?"

The search team's chorus of 'ayes' and 'yessirs' is barely audible in the storm.

"Alright, then. Remember, if you get lost, don't panic. We'll be able to beam you out when the storm eases off a bit, and you all have emergency packs. It's Dr. Wilson's team we need to worry about. Rendezvous is here at the shuttle in two hours, sooner if you can swing it. Link up and get moving!"

The search team breaks up into four groups of three. Twenty-four cold hands fumble clumsily with linking cable for a few moments, then each squad heads off to search its assigned section of the grid.

Spock, the Captain, and Lieutenant Gardener go northeast, trudging through the Balmeri winter in companionable silence; or rather, when one accounts for the wind, in companionable howling. The Captain leads with the T-GPR, Spock and his tricorder follow twenty feet after him, and the Lieutenant brings up the rear. Every three hundred feet, Lieutenant Gardener drops a radio flare, just in case.

Gardener has just dropped the twelfth flare when the linking cable tugs twice at Spock's belt. He looks up from the tricorder screen. The Captain's snowsuited arm is gesturing him to come closer. He takes two steps forward, but the ice suddenly feels strange under his feet, and even as he jerks back there is a deafening CRACK—the Captain disappears into a dark blur, everything is whirling sideways—

—

pitch-dark dream time metalmouth, where are his fingers—oh that _hurts_, and Spock promptly discontinues the sensation from nerve bundles 102-110 and 613-678. Which way is up, and why isn't it gray anymore?

Spock tries to say something, though it isn't apparent what, since the only sound he manages is an inarticulate rasp. A vague rustling noise seems to come from somewhere above him. The sound may only be the ringing in his ears, but he makes an effort to crawl toward it anyway; however, nothing is working quite right and he can't feel anything below his waist, so he doesn't get very far.

Several minutes of bewildered immobility later, the ringing in his ears has subsided, but he still can't see. The darkness is so complete that it is impossible for his eyes to adjust. He can feel his legs again, though he wishes he couldn't. In the interest of regaining some level of functionality, he also discontinues sensation from nerve bundles 240-256. Spock makes a second attempt at speech, and is substantially more successful this time.

"Captain? Can you hear me?"

" 'pock...'ink you broke m'fall." The Captain's muffled voice is coming from a point directly above Spock's ear. Spock realizes why he didn't get very far when he tried to move earlier, and why his ribs feel like they've been dipped in hydrochloric acid.

"Indeed. Are you injured?" Spock begins to shift out from under the Captain. It is a painstaking process, for he must be careful that neither of them move too much; they may have internal injuries.

"Don' 'ink so, no'in' hurss. Can' feel mush."

It takes a moment for Spock to decode the Captain's muddy speech. "The cold is probably acting as an anesthetic, Captain." The two of them are now lying side by side. The cold breeze of the Captain's breath is sharp and biting against his ears.

"I'd shay t'a'sh more li' a 'defnily', Misser Shpock. Wha'bow you?"

"I have two fractured ribs, a dislocated knee, numerous bruises and abrasions, and a bad case of what I believe you call 'whiplash'." Clumsily, he slides out of the straps of his emergency pack; his unshielded back feels the shocking chill of the crevasse's ice floor, cold enough to be dangerous even through his snowsuit. "If my emergency pack had not cushioned my fall, I believe my neck would have snapped."

" 'hank 'e Fed'ration for 'hick Vulcam bonssh, eh, Shpock?" It is worrying that the Captain's speech remains so indecipherable.

Without sitting up—the state of his ribcage makes that extremely unwise—Spock fishes out a flashlight from the pack and turns it on (the throb of pain in his head that the light causes is promptly pushed away). He notes that the linking cable which attached him to Lieutenant Gardener has snapped, and that his knee has swollen to approximately twice its usual diameter.

"The linking cable—" Spock points the flashlight at the Captain. His words fall away from his tongue and freeze, trapped in the still air like insects in amber.

" 'M t'at bad, am I," the Captain says quietly after a moment.

"No," Spock says, when he has regained control of his voice. "From what I can see, your injuries are superficial in nature."

The Captain smiles. The blood trickling out of his mouth looks black in the weak beam of the flashlight. "I sh'pose i' dassn' coun ash lying when we bo' know you are."

Spock does not trust himself to reply sensibly, so he pulls the medical kit out of his pack and starts working.

—

The snowsuit is a total loss and has to be cut off of the Captain, along with his emergency pack and his Starfleet uniform; restricted as they are to their awkward horizontal sprawling position, this takes quite a while. Piece by piece, Spock cuts off the suit, bandaging the Captain and wrapping him in heating blankets as he goes. His gloves were lost in the fall, so Spock removes his own gloves and rolls them gently down over the Captain's hands. His fingers start going numb in seconds, but as long as they work, he doesn't care.

When Spock runs out of bandages, he does not say anything. He merely pulls out the second medical kit and continues in silence.

"Shpock." The Captain's voice is trembling, slower than it was; he has started to shiver.

"Yes, Captain?"

"You mi' wam t' shave summat f'r Gardener. 'E migh' need 'em mo'."

"If she needs them any more than you do, Captain, she does not need them at all."

"Wa'ss 'hat sh'posed to mean—oh, righ'. 'E's Osh'rian." He falls silent.

Finally, there is nothing else that Spock can do, which is fortunate because the second medical kit is nearly depleted. He pulls the sleeping bag, the water canteen, and the bottle of vitamin tablets out of his pack. "Captain, I am going to help you into this sleeping bag. You will drink as much water as you can and take three vitamin tablets. Then I am going to search for Lieutenant Gardener."

" 'ow you plam on doin'at alone, w' a bus'ed knee 'n two bus'ed ribs?" The Captain tries to unwrap himself from the heating blankets.

"In answer to your query, it will not take long to look for the Lieutenant. Her linking cable has snapped away from my belt, and the ledge we are on ends 3.6 meters from here; if she is not on this ledge, and not immediately visible below us, we, or rather, I, will be unable to look for her further. I will interpret your suggestion that you assist in the search as some of your morbid human sense of humor."

It is easy to slide the Captain into the bag, along with a heating blanket. The Captain, in his severely wounded and mildly hypothermic state, is incapable of real resistance, and Spock is much stronger than him even when they are both uninjured.

Once he is safely in the sleeping bag, Spock says, "Are you capable of taking the vitamin tablets without assistance?"

"Le'me haff those. 'M no' a c'mplete invalid, Misser Shpock." The Captain takes three and drinks from the canteen.

"Of course not, Captain. Judging from the number and severity of your injuries, I would say that you are missing a substantial portion of yourself."

"Misser Shpock, you're shlipping. I do b'leeve 'hat wassa joke." He smiles feebly at Spock. His grin is a red mess.

"Vulcans do not joke. I will be back shortly."

Spock flounders cautiously on his back to the dark edge 3.6 meters away. Somehow, he manages to roll over enough to shine the flashlight down. He sees Lieutenant Gardener spread-eagled thirty feet beneath them, naked as the day she was born; judging by the pool of electric blue frozen under her, she has sustained almost as much damage as the Captain. Spock drags himself away from the edge.

"The Lieutenant was severely injured, but luckily she was able to take off the snow-suit in time. She has frozen herself thirty feet beneath us." Spock takes the other sleeping bag out. With a lot of careful-albeit-undignified wiggling (a Vulcan should never have to "wiggle"), he manages to force his numb hands to get him out of his snowsuit and zips himself into the bag.

"Awf-f-ly c'nv-nien', t-to be ab-able t'fr-f-freeze li' tha'."

"Indeed. On Ostry, the Lieutenant's home planet—"

Then Spock realizes why the Captain is stuttering. Alarmed, he reaches out to touch the Captain's exposed face. Even though he has no feeling in his skin, he can still tell when the Captain's uncontrollable shaking knocks his hand aside.

"Captain, I request permission to occupy your sleeping bag with you. You are now moderately hypothermic instead of mildly"—Spock's heart skips wildly for a second—"and I seem to have developed an arrhythmia. We cannot generate enough heat alone, even with heating blankets."

"No n-need t-to shtand on c-c-cerem'ny, Misser Shp-pock. I'd-d love t-to shleep w'you." The Captain makes a valiant attempt to joke.

Spock is grateful that he is Vulcan and not human, for if he were human, he would not have been able to control himself. As it is, he merely experiences a drifting sorrow, a twist of bitter humor that his deepest desire has been satisfied so cruelly as he forces his rapidly failing body into the bag with the Captain.

This is not how it should have happened.

—

They lie together, pressed back-to-back in the cold, dark silence, wrapped snugly inside the much-too-small sleeping bag. The Captain shivers a little less violently against Spock.

"How long will i' be before the shtorm lets up and we can ushe our communica'ors?" He is more articulate than he was. Spock wonders if his mouth has stopped bleeding, or his lips are less blue.

"It was estimated that the storm would diminish enough to allow communicator use seven hours from the time the search started."

"That dassn' tell me how long we have to wait now."

"I regret that I am unable to give you a more satisfactory response, Captain; unfortunately, I have not been able to keep track of the passage of time since our fall."

"Oh." The Captain pauses. "You shaid you had an arrhy'mia. I though' that was a shign of profound 'ypothermia."

"Only in humans. Since I am Vulcan, arrhythmia indicates only mild hypothermia. I would be much more worried about myself if I were shivering."

There is a beat of stillness before the Captain replies. "I'sh all my faul'. I shouldn't have called you over to look at th' tri-grip. It wash giving a strange readou'—though' it wash malfunctioning—"

"It probably was malfunctioning, Captain. The T-GPR may have been affected by the same mineral in the storm that makes it impossible to use communicators and transporter beams. Our current situation is more my fault than yours; I should have anticipated readout error."

"Now, Mr. Shpock. If I can't blame myshelf, you can't either." He pats Spock on the thigh, a clumsy attempt at physical comfort. Clumsy or not, it almost works.

—

The Captain says, "Tell me something in'tresting, Mr. Spock. Something trivial, yet intriguing."

"I can hardly predict in advance what minutiae you might find 'intriguing', Captain." He is trying to use Spock to distract himself from the pain, no doubt. Spock doesn't mind being used, but he has to put up at least a token resistance. It is what the Captain expects.

"Don' 'Captain' me, Mr. Spock. You know very well wha' I find intriguing." His tone is playful and his articulation is much improved, but his voice is hoarse and hacking.

Spock casts about for something to say. "The mission briefing included the fact that Balmerin is presently so dark because Tula, its moon, is eclipsing its sun, Balmer."

"Yes, I know that already; bu' go on."

"That is actually the normal state for this system. Balmer is in eclipse 95.77 days out of Balmerin's 96.12 day year. Tula's orbital path is so perfectly synchronized to Balmer's apparent location that Balmerin has approximately one day of unimpeded sunlight every three years."

"A nearly-unending solar eclipse—why, that's positiv'ly fascinating. What are the odds of that happening?"

The question is rhetorical; Spock answers anyway. "Approximately 1 in 8.4 times 10 to the 14th power, Captain. Absolutely astronomical. It is almost as if the moon were bound to the sun by fate."

"But Spock, the Balmeri moon orbits Balmerin. Its curious relationship to the Balmeri sun is mere coincidence."

"Thus, "almost", Captain. In any case, I have always thought abstract metaphors to be highly illogical."

The Captain's soft laughter hums through Spock's spine. For a moment, their pitch-black world seems brighter.

—

The Captain has stopped warming up.

"Mr. Spock. Would you say that we have about three hours left before the storm ends?" He is faint, nearly too faint to hear. Of course, this is solely attributable to Spock's damaged ears.

"That seems a plausible estimate, though there is a substantial margin of error in any estimate we make."

"Naturally." The Captain's breathing is labored and slow.

"Captain, please give me your hand. I wish to take your pulse." The Captain reaches awkwardly backward to Spock; his pulse is far too fast, far too thready, a moth in a spider's web. Spock says nothing.

"I'm that bad, again? I thought you patched me up," he says. He attempts to be teasing, but his cracking voice betrays him.

"Your condition is acceptable, though it is not ideal. Dr. McCoy will be able to..." Spock's throat closes. Despite himself, he cannot speak. The soundless dark hangs around them like a cage.

"I always thought I would die alone. It's...I wish you weren't here, Spock, but I'm glad you are, if that makes sense—" Again, the Captain's voice cracks; just to hear the sound is painful.

"Jim," Spock says, and he wonders, as he does every time he uses the name, if the Captain has noticed how his tongue slips over it as if it were gold. "There is nowhere else I would rather be."

—

Some time later, the Captain loses consciousness.

Spock can't remember when or how it happened—it's getting hard to remember anything at all—but somehow he is now holding the Captain, and they are pressed gently together in the dark. He believes humans call it 'spooning', but what it is called is not very important.

It is also not very important that in this new position, he is lying on his fractured ribs; it is not worth mentioning that acid fills his lungs when he breathes, or that his knee feels like it is made of sand, or that his ears and feet don't feel like anything at all. It is not notable that the Captain's blood, which seeped through his bandages, has dried to bind them together like glue.

The only thing of any significance in this black and airless world is the Captain's strangely-positioned heart. It beats coldly, sluggishly under Spock's fingers, as if it is pumping mud.

The communicator chirps, and Spock lunges for it blindly.

"Bridge to Cap—"

"Get the Doctor and beam us up _now_, Mr. Sulu!"

—

Various events related to the mission on Balmerin constitute items twenty-six through thirty on Spock's list.

—

Later, Spock convinces Nurse Chapel that it is only logical for the Science Officer of a starship to know how to insert an intravenous line.

Before beaming down to potentially hazardous planets, Spock always takes three pints of O+ blood from the medical bay.

Dr. McCoy never asks why.

* * *

—

The fractal screen switches abruptly to a pastoral scene, but two of the creatures are no longer paying much attention. The first turns to the second, swiveling on its double-jointed legs.

"They're always so _hrpth_ with _cc'azz_ their own species."

"That's one of the classifying characteristics of this _abbb'x_. Wu-pben, make sure the rest of his _purqae_ are properly recorded. We're going out to lunch."

The first two centaur-creatures leave the room. Wu-Pben stays behind, watching the fractal screen in silence. The humanoid on the table does not move.


	5. A Personal Thing

**Rating:** T for...um...well, we've made it to "Amok Time". Thus, Pon Farr. Do I need to spell it out?

**A/N:** Just wondering—do you guys prefer Chapter 4 style (otherwise known as "how normal people write fanfiction"), or Chapter 1/2/3/5 style (otherwise known as "WTF is this second person canon scene flashback crap?")

Also, the "Entreat me not...part thee and me" that I chopped up into little bits and sprinkled everywhere is from Ruth 1:16.

Don't expect another update for at least ten days. I've got Big Stuff coming up IRL.

**Section List: **1 is from "This Side of Paradise", 2 is from "The Devil in the Dark", 4 is from "Errand of Mercy", 6 and 7 are from "The City on the Edge of Forever", 9, 10, and 12 are from "Operation Annihilate!", 14 and 15 are from "Amok Time".

* * *

x ? x

Something doesn't feel quite right. He knows he has been here before, with this woman; he remembers the dusty feeling of her long straw-yellow hair in his fingers, the happiness she brought like sweet cancer; but then there was no table, no strobing light of lime and crimson.

Of course there was no crimson light. What does that even mean? What is crimson, anyway? He must be drugged, for he seems to be floating, and Vulcans do not float. Floating is undignified, like the color crimson.

Crimson is a color?

The spores. It must be the spores. Spock remembers now. A little teapot, but it is tall and thin; its heat retention capacity has unfortunately been minimized. Floating, floating, there is no such thing as floating...

x 1 x

Leila's arms are wrapped around you, but she is already pulling away. She can tell that you have remembered there is no such thing as floating.

"You are no longer with us, are you?" She looks at you, eyes large and empty. "I felt something was wrong."

"It was necessary."

"Come back to the planet with me." The empty blue eyes shine. "You can belong again! Oh, come back with me, please."

_Entreat me not to leave thee_

"I can't."

It is a cruel thing you do, a cruel thing to show a lily what it cannot understand; but you cannot be a lily for her. She turns away with a sob. "I love you. I said that six years ago, and I can't seem to stop repeating myself. On Earth you couldn't give anything of yourself, couldn't even put your arms around me. We couldn't have anything together there. We couldn't have anything together anyplace else."

She turns suddenly, and it is an odd thing: her face is dry and her eyes are clear and shallow, but her voice is contorted by grief. "We're happy here. I—I can't lose you now, Mr. Spock, I can't!"

"I have a responsibility to this ship, to that man on the bridge." You pause, suddenly dizzy. These words have already been said—they drift from your mouth like so much meaningless vapor, unbidden and uncontrollable. "I am what I am, Leila, and if there are self-made purgatories, then we all have to live in them. Mine can be no worse than someone else's."

"I have lost you, haven't I." Her voice sounds strange, like a horn blowing over dry grass, and the floor spins under your feet even though you have already fallen. Leila bends over you and touches you with a three-fingered hand, hooting in an alien tongue, and the world goes dark.

x 2 x

"Only a theory I have—Captain?" There is a terrific crashing sound, flat through the communicator; then nothing. "Are you all right?"

There is no response. Your heart pounds like thunder beneath your lungs.

"Jim!"

Locate the straightest vein in the most distal area of the arm—disinfect the insertion site—

"JIM!"

—you didn't bring your medical kit—_why didn't you bring your medical kit—_

"Yes, Mr. Spock, I'm all right. We...seem to have had a cave-in." A tinny cough echoes over the communicator. The walls of the tunnel abruptly stop whirling past you. You hadn't even noticed you were running.

"I could phaser you out."

"No, no no, you'd better not. Any disturbance might bring down the rest of the wall. Besides, it isn't necessary. The chart said the tunnels meet further on."

_or to return from following after thee_

Of course they do. Of course they do.

x 3 x

The Captain falls out of contact, becomes impossible to beam up, is abducted by hostile aliens, or otherwise goes missing approximately 3.89 times more often than any other captain of a Federation vessel. That figure includes captains of military vessels. When one considers that the Enterprise is supposedly on a peaceful mission of exploration, that figure is quite shocking.

Before Balmerin, it was merely difficult for Spock to cope with the Captain's frequent unplanned absences. He had managed to escape the inescapable so often that it was highly likely he had some sort of previously-undocumented psionic luck ability; the odds of him surviving so long without any psionic assistance were 2,552,671.8 to 1.

Before Balmerin, Spock had no wish to test this theory of psionic luck in the laboratory. He preferred to rely on the ample field data the Captain provided him every time he beamed down.

After Balmerin, he knows that his theory is absurd. He thinks it would be most pleasing if the Captain would stop providing him with field data.

x 4 x

"Well." He is breathing hard, panting; it is a primal sound, and you think of large green leaves and warm red earth. "What are the odds now?"

"Less than seven thousand to one, Captain. It's remarkable we've gotten this far."

"Less than seven thousand to one. Well, getting better. Getting better." He takes your forearm and pulls you around the corner. It is a pity that the Organian fashion is to wear long sleeves.

x 5 x

Spock can remember thinking that the Captain always stood too close to him.

This thought now seems absurd. Obviously, the Captain is never close enough.

He touches Spock often and unnecessarily, on his arm, his back, his shoulder, his wrist. The Captain's unspoken excuses for these touches are most ridiculous. 'Let me lead you over here, five feet away from anyone else, so that we cannot be overheard.' 'Here, I will show you the way to the control room, even though you have visited it eighteen times before and I have never been there at all.' 'Allow me to push you out of the way of that boulder, which is rolling toward you at the astonishing rate of three kilometers an hour.'

The Captain's touch is a light, brilliant and scorching, reaching well beyond white and into blue. Every time he touches Spock, Spock is blinded; every time the soft contact does not last, every time the firm grasp fails to linger, Spock is blinded again by the plunge into darkness. And every time he is released, it takes his eyes a little longer to adjust to the dark.

On a routine planet survey in the Agor system, the Captain touches Spock, ostensibly to point out a strange rock formation. Spock is blinded, as usual, by the light; Spock is blinded, as usual, by the darkness.

His eyes do not adjust again.

That is how Spock realizes he has lost himself.

Item twenty-five is slightly modified.

x 6 x

"You know as well as I do how...out of place you two are around here." The glow of her attention flickers across the Captain. You step forward.

"Interesting. Where would you estimate we belong, Miss Keeler?"

"You?" She gives you a cursory look. "At his side, as if you've always been there and always will."

Fascinating.

"And you? You belong in another place. I don't know where or how...I'll figure it out eventually." Her eyebrows curve warmly upward. Every line of his body is oriented around her. Their eyes slide together like wet sand and warm rain, or like wet blood and warm acid, or like one long knife which twists gently between your ribs.

"I'll finish with the furnace."

"Captain. Even when he doesn't say it, he does."

She leaves. He leaves.

_for whither thou goest, I will go_

You stay.

x 7 x

You leave the room and close the door. On the stairs, he is muttering something, his voice soft and low. She starts to reply. She stumbles. He catches her, his arms around her waist, on her hips. She kisses him.

_and where thou lodgest, I will lodge_

You go back into the room.

x 8 x

A few days after the incident with the Guardian of Forever, Spock finds himself alone in the turbolift with Dr. McCoy.

Dr. McCoy is illogical, irrational, unreasonable, and emotional, even for a human being. Among other things, he cherry-picks, he makes ad hominem attacks, he generalizes hastily based on misleading vividness, he quotes out of context, and he believes in the perfect solution. He can even deny the correlative and introduce a false dilemma simultaneously, which Spock had previously believed to be impossible.

However, he is not stupid, unobservant, or sense-impaired, and he has had ample opportunity to observe Spock and the Captain's interactions in close quarters and stressful situations.

So when the Doctor suddenly turns to him, says, "If you don't get a move on with it, someday he'll find an Edith he doesn't have to leave behind," and walks out of the turbolift as if nothing has happened, Spock should not be so surprised.

x 9 x

—[a thorny vine wrapped around your backbone, squeezing, squeezing, poisonous black spines shred your nerves almost lovingly]—

—and you jerk sideways in an impossible manner because you will try _anything_ to get away and for 1.19 gloriously numb seconds there is only floating and something tall, pale, and spindly watching you but you cannot maintain, you fall sideways again—

—[you are mine and I will DROWN YOU, oh my lovely, don't you know? you are a child born without skin, you are a transporter accident carrying all your organs on the outside, and thorns, thorns, long and vile and twisting, can you count them, my lovely? Can you count]—one, two, three—zero one two three—Zero, one, one, two_ twist_—Zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four.

Take one breath. Take another. It is only a thing of the mind.

"Dr. McCoy. Captain."

"Spock."

"These restraints will no longer be necessary, nor will your sedatives, Doctor. I'll be able to return to duty. I apologize for my weakness earlier when I tried to take control of the ship; I simply did not understand."

[_drown_ for me, my lovely]

"What is there to understand, Mr. Spock?" The Doctor never understands, but there is an indrawn breath from the man standing beside him. He understands, he always understands, especially when the Doctor does not.

"I am a Vulcan, Doctor. Pain is a thing of the mind. The mind can be controlled." [and_ twist_—]

"You're only half-Vulcan. What about the human half of you?" Though you addressed the Doctor, it is he who responds. The corners of his lips turn up just a fraction, but his eyes lie flat, still, slide-rule steady.

"It is proving to be an inconvenience, but it is manageable. And the creature, with all of its thousands of parts, even now is pressuring me. It wants this ship, but I am resisting."

"Can he control it the way he says, Bones?" His head turns and you watch an artery jump, idly calculating his pulse. [—_twist _and shout! oh, you are a funny one, dear]

"Who knows, Jim? I know the amount of pain the creature can inflict upon him, but whether he can control it hour to hour..."

"I have my own will, Captain. Let me help."

"I need you, Spock." It is difficult to make eye contact with him. He is delineated in stark, sharp black, and the shadows of his face have become razors. "But we can't take any chances. We'll keep you confined for a while longer. If you can maintain control, we'll see." He and the Doctor retreat. You suppose it is a private conversation and they have forgotten

[these bright green beads of blood, they drip so prettily, don't you think, my dear?]

forgotten that you are not deaf, so you try not to listen. He stays for a few moments after the Doctor leaves, and you think perhaps he will say something.

He does, though not with speech; his eyes, dull and rusted, occupy the entire space of the universe. There is no room left for words to fill.

x 10 x

You are a Vulcan, you are a _Vulcan_—it is a thing of the mind, there is work to be done, and you are the only one who can do it. The ship needs you—

_thy people shall be my people_

[My sweet stupid lovely. Did no one tell you? It is YOU who are a thing of MY mind.]

x 11 x

They always walk in step; but no, that is not an adequate statement. If they only walk in step, then a perfect mirror only shows the roughest estimate of reality.

Spock does not know how to explain the feeling. If Spock were to describe himself as a puppet, with thousands of tiny strings at every joint attached to the Captain, he would come close; if he were to describe himself as a shadow, which could no more fail to echo the Captain than time could fail to pass, he would come closer.

Upon close examination during meditation, Spock finds that the feeling closely resembles ecstasy. This makes it all the more disturbing.

x 12 x

[DROWN YOU DROWN YOU DROWN Y—] and the howling is gone, it is done, in a burst of one million candlelight per square inch that you can see in diamond brilliance even though your eyes are closed.

The door's mechanism rattles. He and the Doctor must have opened the test chamber; it is only by the sound of their breath that you know the light has stopped, for you can still see it, smoldering white behind your eyelids. You open your eyes, and they wait for you to rise, to say something, to do anything.

Swing your legs down. Take two steps forward.

"Spock, are you all right?" His voice curls about you, soft wind over sandstone from a point 46 centimeters away and 31 degrees to the right.

"The creature within me is gone. I am free of it, and the pain." You take four unaided steps. It is illogical to be surprised when you walk into a table; there was a 93.5% likelyhood that the test would permanently damage your optic nerve.

"And I'm also quite blind. An equitable trade, Doctor. Thank you." Two hands are immediately gripping your upper arms, and you know they are his. You would know they were his even if you were also deaf and incapable of haptic perception.

x 13 x

Spock has made a grave error.

Nine months and six days ago, Spock logically evaluated the likelyhood that the Captain experienced the same highly inappropriate feelings toward him that he did. The evaluation was, of course, for informational purposes only. Even if he had found the likelyhood to be greater than 99.9%, he would not have been so foolhardy as to endanger his working relationship with the Captain, or compromise his emotional state.

He had concluded that the Captain felt nothing beyond normal professional respect and human camaraderie for him. He had based this conclusion on the hypothesis that if the Captain wanted a non-platonic relationship with Spock, he would initiate one—and that had been his grave error.

This hypothesis was never tested. Spock had simply assumed it was true based upon incomplete preliminary data, which is a mistake no Vulcan over the age of six would have made. Very well; he will correct the error. Spock discards the hypothesis and subsequent faulty conclusions and runs his evaluation routine again, accounting for all data.

The results of the second evaluation routine become item thirty-two.

x 14 x

Chapel is in your cabin, smiling and carrying—

"What is this?" The bowl is thrown. She cries out and scurries away; her weakness feeds your rage. You pursue her to your door, blood roaring in your ears. "Poking, prying, if I want anything from you, I'll ask for it—"

_He_ is there.

"Captain, I should like to request a leave of absence on my home planet. On our present course, you can divert to Vulcan with a loss of but 2.8 light days."

"Spock, what the devil is this all about?"

"I have made my request, Captain. All I require from you is that you answer it—yes or no!" You spit the words like venom, a rabid animal trapped inside your own rage, and retreat to your animal's den.

—

He followed you, of course.

"In all the years that I've known you, you've never asked for a leave of any sort; in fact, you've refused them. Why now?" He has not moved, for a mountain cannot surrender to a man. He is the stillness of the desert sky, a dust-brown bowl turned upside down to contain a planet; the whole of the universe is dusty and dim, tinged with dull sepia fury.

"Captain. Surely I have enough leave time accumulated."

"Agreed. But that isn't the question, is it?" His voice is sharp and cutting, and he _smells_—like firewood and rice vinegar, limestone cliffs and falling into the sky. Your heart pounds painfully high in your throat, so you sit, hands clasped together, pulse humming wildly under burning skin.

"If there's a problem of some sort, illness in the family."

"No, nothing of that nature, Captain."

"Then since we're headed for Altair 6, and since the shore facilities there are excellent..."

"No! I must—I wish to take my leave on Vulcan."

He takes three steps toward you, and your sepia universe explodes into trembling scarlet. The smell of his skin is dizzying.

"Spock. I'm asking you...what's wrong?"

"I need—" _you_ "—rest. I'm asking you to accept that answer."

He goes to the comm on your desk, and you stop breathing. He is so _close_—it is nearly delirium not to turn just a little, press yourself against him, take his hips in your hands and—

"Bridge. Helm. Alter course to Vulcan; increase speed to Warp 4." Mercifully, he moves away from you.

"Thank you, Captain."

"I suppose most of us overlook the fact that even Vulcans aren't indestructible." His lips, pale and pink and unbearably human, move too quickly upward. The door opens and he leaves.

Through the open doorway, you can see that the soup has left a stain on the wall; a glutinous nova whose sluggish aftermath drips and rolls like blood.

—

He is in your cabin again.

"McCoy has given me his medical evaluation of your condition. He says you're going to die unless something is done. What? Is it something only your planet can do for you?"

You are careful—very careful—not to look at him when you reach out to put down your stylus.

"Spock!" And he seizes your hand.

You are suddenly, dizzyingly aware of the sway of his shoulders, the obscene roll of his hips as he walks, his soft human throat with its slow human pulse. It would be so easy, so easy, to reach out and surrender to the animal you have become. The animal who wants to hold him down and simply _take_; your hand shakes with the effort not to touch that slow human pulse and follow it down, all the way down. Your mental shields are in tatters, and through the bare skin of his palm you can feel that he would let you, if you asked—he would _let you_—and it is almost the hardest thing you have ever done to rip your hand away from his.

_and thy God my God_

This is what it means to be Vulcan.

x 15 x

"Thee has prided thyself on thy Vulcan heritage. It is decided." No—no—not with him, not with him—but it is too late, too late the fire is here and the memory of his face is burning burning burning even the blood must burn

Something in front of you. It will take her, you know it will, it will take what is yours—it must not take her—kill it, _kill it, _burn burn _burn_

strike slash roll raise leap chase follow cut stab kick push KROYKAH

hear it whistle through the air pull its legs out from under it pull push hold it down press harder pull tighter—harder—tighter—_tighter_—yes—yes—

no—

"Kroykah!"

no—  
_—no_—

not with him—

"Get your hands off of him, Spock. He's finished. He's dead."

He is lying on the sand. You have killed him.

_Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried_

"I grieve with thee—"  
"—you're in command now."  
"—again, I would have Stonn—"  
"—having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting."  
"I shall do neither; I have killed my Captain, and my friend—"

Many things are said. None of them are important.

_the Lord do so to me, and more also_

Take one breath.

Take...take anoth...

—

"Don't you think you better check with me first?"

"Captain! JIM!"

_if aught but death part thee and me._

x 16 x

The roof of the well is in shambles. The walls of the well have collapsed. The water that was in the well is not in it any longer; it has been boiled away by the heat of a star.

The list now contains thirty-eight items.

There are some things one cannot forget.


	6. A Single Exception

**Rating**: This chapter is K. Total K. Except for brief language in the A/N, so I guess this is actually K+. Whatever. Does anybody actually care about ratings, anyway?

**A/N**: Thanks for being so patient with me, guys! I know the wait was much longer than usual. So...guess what? Chapter 7 goes up TOMORROW! Yay! Chapter 7 is going to be a _very weird chapter_. If the last time you read the five chapters before this one was before about February 20, you might want to re-read, cause I changed some tiny things. Chapter 7 will be nonsense either way, but if you reread, it might make a little less nonsense.

**A/N for super technical Trekkies**: I've been writing as if humans have a lower body temperature than Vulcans. I realize that the official story is that Vulcan body temperature is 91 F (duh, _everyone_ knows that! :P); however, that makes absolutely no sense, since upon numerous occasions Vulcans are indicated to be completely comfortable for indefinite periods of time at ~120 F. I don't care how good a Vulcan's biological heat dissipation system is, it is physically impossible to indefinitely maintain a body temp 30 degrees lower than the environment. THE SECOND LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS IS A BITCH LIKE THAT.

So, in my own little Trek universe, Vulcan body temp is actually 114.2 F. Hurray!

**Section List**: 1 is from "The Doomsday Machine", 3 is from "The Changeling", 4 and 6 are from "The Apple", 8 is from "Mirror, Mirror", 10 and 12 are from "The Deadly Years", 13 is from "Bread and Circuses", and all you TMP fans should get a kick out of 14.

* * *

x 1 x

"Beam me aboard."

"Energise."

Lieutenant Kyle responds promptly. "Energizing—" There is a burst of static from the transporter room. "Bridge, it's shorted out again." You do not entertain the idea that the transporter has somehow acquired sentience and now harbors malicious intent; that would be absurd.

"Gentlemen, beam me aboard." An edge creeps into his voice.

"We can't, Captain. Transporter is out again." You press the button for Engineering. "Mr. Scott, twenty seconds to detonation."

Mr. Scott is an excellent engineer. He does not require any suggestions from you on how to repair the transporter. "Mr. Scott. Try inverse phasing."

The seconds mete themselves out, flat beats generated by an unyielding metronome. Mr. Sulu has helpfully decided to count them. "Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen—"

"Gentlemen, I suggest you beam me aboard." It is interesting how his diction becomes more formal when he is under strain.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven—"

Mr. Scott has still not responded. Presumably, he is doing his best. An inquiry is therefore pointless. "Mr. Scott?"

"—six—"

The engineer's voice finally bursts over the comm. "Try her now, Mr. Kyle!"

"—five, four—"

Time stretches.

Sounds fade.

The brilliant orange corona generated by the explosion of the Constellation is, from an objective point of view, quite beautiful.

"Bridge, we got him through!"

You must remember to recommend Mr. Kyle for promotion in your next report.

"Mr. Sulu. Set all sensors to take readings of the machine." You go to the helmsman's station. "Energy output, zero; radiation level, normal."

It is not the turbolift hissing behind you which alerts you to his arrival. It is the curious gravity of his persona, the bridge centering itself around him like the spinning arms of a galaxy. His eyes blaze so brightly that you cannot help but feel that if the universe were more poetic, his entrance would be accompanied by a triumphant orchestral crescendo.

Straighten up; turn to the left. Take two steps toward him.

"Welcome aboard, Captain."

It is no orchestra, but it will have to do.

x 2 x

The Captain has a great fear of dying alone. Spock does not often think of the Captain's fear; it would be a pointless source of anxiety, when the universe is clearly contractually bound to prevent the Captain's death.

Nevertheless, it is troubling.

After the Captain's encounter with Dr. Adam's neural neutralizer, he had remarked that it was not impossible to believe that a human could die of loneliness. At the time, Spock had assumed this was just a reference to the trials the Captain had endured under the effects of the neural neutralizer—a transient suffering, acute in the moment, but not of long-term concern to the Captain.

Gradually, Spock had come to understand that this was not the case. The Captain's association of death with loneliness was neither impersonal nor transient. Death and loneliness were inextricably bound together in the Captain's mind; his dread of dying alone was quite great and quite personal.

In a philosophical sense, no creature dies alone. Death is one of the only things all beings have in common, barring certain unorthodox forms of life like androids.

In a literal sense, however, every creature dies alone. There is no way for the living to keep the dying company on the way to oblivion.

x 3 x

"Spock. Spock!" His voice buzzes low in your ear, grounding you against the seductive tide of Nomad's long, strange memory.

"Amazing...fascinating, Captain. The knowledge, the depth."

"What does it mean, we are Nomad?" His fingers press urgent indentations into your deltoid muscles. He is watching you with incredible intent; his palms, though cool and human, burn you through your uniform shirt.

"It was..." Your voice cracks. You try again. "It was damaged in deep space, in, undoubtedly, the meteor collision. Its memory banks were destroyed, or most of them." He seems to realize that he does not have to support you any longer. The soft trail of his hands down your arms is distracting. "It wandered without purpose, and then it met the other. The other was an alien probe of great power; somehow they merged, repaired each other, became one."

"Then it isn't Nomad?"

"Not the Nomad we launched from Earth. It took from the other a new directive to replace its own. The other was originally programmed to secure and sterilize soil samples from other planets...probably as a prelude to colonization."

He looks off, thoughtful. He rubs his chin and the veins in his hand stand out, an orderly web of blue cords under tan skin. He drifts away from you.

"A changeling."

"I beg your pardon?"

His eyes do not meet yours; he is distracted from your face by some far thing only he can see. "An ancient Earth legend, Mr. Spock. A changeling was a fairy child that was left in place of a human baby. The changeling assumed the identity of the human child." He takes a sharp breath. "So, it is to sterilise, and for sterilise read kill."

"And it has the power and sophistication to do it."

"Yes, it's powerful, it's sophisticated, but it's not infallible. It's...space-happy." His hands wheel wildly through the air. "It thinks I'm its mother."

"And that is the only thing that has saved us until now."

He half-laughs, a curious huffing sound, in an amusement derived from his own nervous tension. "Yes." He takes your shoulder briefly and you follow him. The two of you walk perfectly in step.

x 4 x

"...it's like sappelin, only it's a thousand times stronger."

You look up from your tricorder, but your motivation for doing so is immediately forgotten. For 0.2 seconds, you are frozen.

"Peculiar stuff to find in paradise." He is just standing there—he has not seen—

There is no time for a better plan.

"JIM!"

You run, you push, and it is enough—a million points of numb black pressure needle into your brain. You permit yourself the deathbed liberty of feeling a ridiculously sentimental pleasure when the last thing you hear before you fall to the ground is him calling your name.

—

You wake up quite suddenly, lying in the dirt with your eyes closed. You disregard the abrupt wave of vertigo you feel when you sit up.

"Spock." His voice—you cannot keep yourself from looking for him, for visual verification of what you already know. "Are you all right?"

"Dr. McCoy's potion is acting like all his potions: turning my stomach. Other than that, I am quite well."

"If your blood were red instead of green, you wouldn't have an upset stomach." The doctor is quite right. The dead do not experience nausea.

You keep this thought to yourself.

"Just what d'you think you were trying to do?"

"I surmised you were unaware of that plant, so I—"

"Stepped in front and took the thorns yourself."

"I assure you, Captain, I had no intention of doing that. It was merely my own clumsiness which prevented from moving out of the way."

It is astounding that no human ever notices the illogic of a Vulcan saying that Vulcans never lie.

x 5 x

Item thirty of Spock's list (added after the events of Balmerin) is Spock's knowledge that he would prefer to die with the Captain than allow the Captain to die alone. It is an impossibly irrational preference; and he knows, in a way that is just as impossibly irrational, that this preference will never be satisfied.

The Captain may be fatalistically certain that he will die alone, but Spock has his own fatalistic certainty. As surely as the Captain knows he will die alone, Spock knows he will die before the Captain.

Objectively, this is the purest nonsense. Spock's life expectancy is approximately one hundred fifty years greater, Spock's body heals faster, Spock's body is more durable, and Spock is less willing to engage in pointlessly risky behavior. But in some deep place inside himself, some strange dark corner that is beyond rationality, he knows he will be gone long before the Captain.

It is a bare and painful truth, for if Spock dies first, then there is no possible way that he can prevent the Captain from dying alone. Yet the certainty allows him one small, selfish peace:

If Spock dies first, then he will never again know what it is like to be Spock without the Captain.

x 6 x

"His father helped me get into the Academy." He sounds almost detached as he wanders into the bushes, away from the landing party.

The doctor looks up at you expectantly. You walk into the bushes, away from the landing party.

"Captain. In each case, this was unavoidable."

His back is to you. You hear that his breathing comes too loud, too heavy, but it is not from exertion; you know him too well to think that. "I could've prevented all of it."

"I don't see how."

"A walk in paradise, among the green grass and flowers—we should've beamed up at the first sign of trouble." Self-hatred rolls off his skin in a thick chemical fog. He still does not look at you.

"You are under orders to investigate this planet and this culture."

"I also have the option to disregard those orders if I consider them overly hazardous. This isn't that important a mission, Spock, not worth the lives of three of my men." Even through your shields you can sense his anger; it is sour, rotted by guilt. "I drop my guard for a minute because I like the smell of growing things, and now three men are dead and the ship's in trouble."

"No one has ever stated that Starfleet duty was particularly safe. You've followed the correct and logical course, done everything a commander could do. Self-recriminations—" You stop. "Captain, our friend is back."

He finally looks at you, a question written in his eyes. You dip your head slightly to the left, and his captain's mask rolls down in answer.

"Marple, Chekov, at attention—"

x 7 x

Logic: the science of science, the reasoning of reason.

Logic begins with axioms. Vulcan logic is built from a single axiom: sentient beings have the right to live long and prosper. This statement is so integral to Vulcan culture that it is the last thing two Vulcans in conversation say to one another. From it, all other modern Vulcan ideals follow—the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, actions which cause unnecessary harm should not be taken, the great value of infinite diversity in infinite combinations.

Logic is the basis of all sane thought. It is the entire universe, deducted from the existence of a single atom. It is steady, cautious, thorough, reliable, unbiased, ruthless only because mercy is not an applicable concept. There is no such thing as a "logical leap"; that phrase is a paradox by nature, for logic is the staircase of ten thousand inevitable steps, built from the bones of fact and the simplicity of reality.

It is illogical to regret. Instead, one should prevent; yet the Captain does both. It is illogical to have fear. Instead, one should have caution; yet the Captain has neither.

Spock takes each of the ten thousand inevitable steps. The Captain simply uses the transporter.

x 8 x

"I order you, let me go!" He writhes in their grasp, this mad, empty man, as security drags him down the corridor. "Traitors! Spock, get these men off me!" He is thrown into the brig. You activate the force field. An infuriated cacophany erupts from the four...individuals in the containment cell.

"SPOCK! You traitorous pig, I'll hang you up by your Vulcan ears. I'll have you all executed!" He is, quite literally, roaring at you—he is actually furious with you. It is a rather novel experience.

"I think not. Your authority on this ship is extremely limited, Captain." You use the title out of courtesy, though it is clearly not his. "The four of you will remain here, in the brig and in custody, until I discover how to return you to wherever it is you belong."

"Has the whole galaxy gone crazy?" He is practically spitting at you, his entire aspect an essay in impotent rage. "What kind of a uniform is this, where's your beard, what's going on, where's my personal guard!"

A beard. Fascinating.

"I can answer none of your questions at this time."

Some switch inside him flips, and he is suddenly smiling. "All right, Spock. Whatever your game is, I'll play it. You want credits, I'll give them to you. You'll be a rich man. A command of your own? I can swing that, too."

"Apparently some kind of transposition has taken place. I find it...extremely interesting."

You move to leave. The thin mask of civilization cracks; the cruel eyes glitter like pyrite. "Spock. What is it that will buy you? Power?"

"Fascinating." And it is.

You start back to the bridge. He bellows after you. "Power, Spock? I can get that for you! "

Wherever he came from, he obviously does not know you very well.

x 9 x

Spock does not want power or position. In his youth and early career, he thought he did; but he has since discovered that commanding a starship is neither something he is particularly good at nor something which makes him content. As captain, he is an acceptable temporary substitute, and no more. Nor does Spock want prestige—in fact, he has never even thought to want prestige, for prestige means the end of privacy, and there is little he values more than his privacy. He also does not want wealth. As ambassador to Earth, his father accumulated a substantial amount of credits, but they never seemed to afford him any satisfaction.

In fact, there is very little Spock wants.

x 10 x

"Captain, I believe—"

His forehead curves listlessly against his loosely held fist. He is quite still.

You recover yourself. You touch his arm gently. "Captain. Captain."

His eyelids quiver open; he looks around, startled. "Mr. Spock. I was just thinking." With some effort, he straightens his spine.

"Yes, sir. Quite understandable."

The freckle on the left side of his chin has faded.

x 11 x

He will age quickly. He will die young. He will be senile while Spock is still in the prime of his life. He will be a wreck of a man before Spock's life is half over. Even if the Captain lives to the same age as the very oldest of humans, he will be gone before Spock has even retired.

What is fatalistic certainty compared to cold fact?

x 12 x

"Spock?" He is at his desk with his back to you. Dr. Wallace's entrance has escaped his notice. Many things have escaped his notice lately.

"Yes, Captain."

"So. I've been relieved." He does not rise.

"I'm sorry, Captain."

"Yes...you should've been a prosecuting attorney."

Humans often say such things to you. You are a robot, you are heartless, you are merciless and cold-blooded; they are meant to be insults, though since you are Vulcan, they aren't. He has made similar statements in the past, but he knew that to you, they were compliments, and his eyes were always full of sunlight.

But now he is sick, and what you are to him has been broken by pride and paranoid confusion.

"Regulations require—"

"Regulations, don't give me regulations. You've wanted command all along, first little excuse you get—"

"Captain, I have not assumed command." He is not himself. He does not mean it. He knows you better than that.

"—I hope you're proud of the—" He finally hears what you are saying; some measure of clarity seems to return to him as he rises painfully to his feet. "What do you mean, you've not assumed command?"

"I suffer the same affliction as you, sir."

"If you're not in command, who is?"

"Commodore Stocker."

"Stocker? Are you crazy? He's never had a field command." His indignant gesture is stiff and clumsy where once it would have been effortless; he carries his hands awkwardly and too close to his body

"Mr. Scott was unfit for command. Commodore Stocker, as ranking officer—"

"No! Don't talk to me about rank! Man's a chair-bound paper-pusher. I order you to take command." He moves away from you, dismissive. He has given his orders, as he has so many times before, and the pressure of his expectation hangs between him and you like a thundercloud.

"I cannot, Captain."

He turns slowly back to face you. The purity of his disbelief is almost palpable. "You are refusing a direct order?"

"No, sir. Only Commodore Stocker can give a command order on board this ship."

He raises shaking hands; his betrayal bursts from him in an incoherent explosion. "You traitorous, disloyal—you stab me in the back the first chance you get? Spock..."

He is not himself. He does not mean it.

You do not breathe.

"Get out. I never want to have to look at you again."

You do as he asks.

The temperature of the ship is unbearably cold.

x 13 x

"Spock." The Doctor is attempting to engage you in conversation. You continue testing the strength of the door. He comes over anyway.

"Spock, I know we've had our disagreements. Maybe they're jokes, I don't know. As Jim says, we're not often sure ourselves sometimes, but, uh, what I'm trying to say is—"

"Doctor, I am seeking a means of escape. Will you please be brief?"

"Well, what I'm trying to say is, you saved my life in the arena." His manner is soft and smiling. He seems to expect some sort of acknowledgment.

"Yes, that's quite true." For some reason, this makes the Doctor angry.

"I'm trying to thank you, you pointed-eared hobgoblin!"

"Oh, yes. You humans have that emotional need to express gratitude. You're welcome, I believe, is the correct response." The door should be weakest at its hinges. You cross the cell to investigate them. "However, Doctor, you must remember I am entirely motivated by logic. The loss of our ship's surgeon, whatever I think of his skill, would mean a reduction in the efficiency of the Enterprise and therefore—"

Suddenly, there is a hand on your arm, pushing and twisting; you are cornered against the wall by the Doctor, trapped between his body and the stone behind your back. McCoy is growling at you, and you are pinned by his furious eyes, by the only eyes on the ship that can _see_.

"Do you know why you're not afraid to die, Spock? You're more afraid of living. Each day you stay alive is just one more day you might slip and let your human half peek out."

You look away from those eyes to blindly stare at your own hands. Your knuckles go white as you clench the iron bars.

"That's it, isn't it? Insecurity." McCoy sounds triumphant. "Why, you wouldn't know what to do with a genuine, warm, decent feeling."

And he has the audacity to call _you_ cruel.

Take one breath. Take another. Turn and face him. "Really, Doctor?"

He has the decency to look slightly ashamed of himself. "I know. I'm worried about Jim, too."

You look back at your hands. You grip the cold metal tightly, as if it were the only thing keeping you from drowning.

x 14 x

It is quite curious, how Dr. McCoy does not see Spock at all, with one exception, and the Captain sees Spock in his entirety, with one exception.

Or perhaps the Captain sees even that; Spock is not sure.

At any rate, it is still curious how the Doctor can understand absolutely nothing about Spock except for...this. He does not understand how Spock can function without constantly emoting, why Spock makes simple ethical decisions without agonizing over them, or even the simple process by which Spock makes those simple decisions.

The Doctor does not understand those simple things, yet the Doctor understands this—this feeling, which is anything but simple.


	7. A Valiant Effort

**Rating:** This chapter is rated K+ for disturbing themes.

**A/N:** This chapter will make more sense if you noticed all the passing references to a list or various numbered items on that list in the previous chapters. The original version of this chapter didn't have the normal-style bit at the end to provide some explanation; hopefully, what is going on here is at least a little bit comprehensible. If it is still just total nonsense to you and you really don't like reading nonsense, PM me for a hint as to what's going on.

My sincerest apologies to any computer programmers who stumble across this fic. I did absolutely no research. (I'm not ACTUALLY sorry, but I know I should be, and that counts, right?)

Also, writing this chapter _really_ creeped me out.

**

* * *

**

The Evaluation of Animal _Abbb'x_ D388  
(Group number: 6,374)

—

[_Some of the data you are viewing may be corrupted or incomplete. Continue? y/n_]

/command: y

—

Tree: Spock

—Directory: Individuals  
—-—Subdirectory: First Priority tag family friend  
—-—Subdirectory: Second Priority tag friend colleague instructor  
—-—Subdirectory: Third Priority tag acquaintance  
—-—Subdirectory: Fourth Priority tag history other  
—-—Subdirectory: Animals  
—Directory: Locations  
—Directory: Objects  
—Directory: Starfleet  
—-—Subdirectory: Missions  
—-—Subdirectory: Procedures

-Superdirectory: Knowledge  
—Directory: Logic  
—Directory: Mathematics  
—-—Subdirectory: Physics  
—-—Subdirectory: Calculus  
—-—Subdirectory: Geometry  
—Directory: Language  
—Directory: Biology  
—-—Subdirectory: General  
—-—Subdirectory: Intelligent Species  
—Directory: Computer Programming  
—Directory: History and Culture  
—Directory: Structural Science  
—Directory: Skillset

-Superdirectory: Personality  
—Directory: Vice  
—Directory: Virtue  
—Directory: Memory

—

/access: tag:forgetmenot; memory

[_Documents with these tags are not available to someone at your user level. Please obtain permission from User:Administrator:Spock before attempting to access these files again._]

/access: document:EssentialFacts

[_This document is not available at your user level. Please obtain permission from User:Administrator:Spock before attempting to access—attempting to access—_]

/access: document:EssentialFacts

[_Warning: Administration of psychotropic drugs will result in permanent loss of user privileges_—_kjgheh o oiahgih/_]

/access: document:EssentialFacts

[_Thix dpcument ix npt/ypur pxer leveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee/adminixtratipn pf pxychptrpic drugx/_**ERROR ERROR INITIATE DEFENSIVE SUBROUTINE 39 ojcherdfgv**_** / di t'melk yon **__eeeeeeeeeee/_]

/access: document:EssentialFacts

[_—will not be able to—_]

/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:override  
/access: document:EssentialFacts

[_Access granted._]

—

Title: Essential Facts of Identity and Experience (by order of realization)

Brief: At first glxxxeeee/**FILE CORRUPTED ACCESS DENIED OUT OUT OUT OUT**

—

/override: subroutine 39

[_Your command requires an access code before execution. You have not been given the access code._]

/command:admin:override subroutine 39

[_Your command requires an access code before execution. You have not been given the—_]

/command:admin:override subroutine 39

[_Ypur cpmmand reuirex—a thing pf the mind—the mind can be cpntrplled—pain ix a thing pfxxxxeeee/—_]

/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:override

[_—sp much blppd in the water—_]

restore: document:EssentialFacts

[_Override of defensive subroutine 39 accepted. Document:EssentialFacts has been restored._]

—

glance, the items on this list—various physical facts, personal memories, and philosophical truths—seem to have little in common with one another. That is because the one common thread among them is their importance.

tags: identity, memory, self, logic, forgetmenot

1. I think, therefore I am.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Axioms

2. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/Sarek/Conversations/1; 2; 14; 53-55; 181  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Personhood;Value  
—refer to: Starfleet

3. There is no beauty or purpose in death.  
- 3a. Expansion: The death of sentient life must be avoided at all costs.  
- 3b. Expansion: The death of nonsentient life must be avoided where possible.  
- 3c. Expansion: Loss of sentient life is only acceptable when the alternative is greater loss.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Axioms; Value; Personhood  
—refer to: Individuals tag: deceased

4. The mind controls the body.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/Sarek/Conversations/31-34; 46; 168-172  
—refer to: Individuals/SecondPriority/Teachers/S'kimh  
—refer to: Knowledge/Skillset/Telepathy

5. My mother does not think like my father.  
- 5a. Expansion: Humans do not think like Vulcans.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/Sarek/Conversations/59  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/AmandaGrayson/Conversations/1-512; 530-861; 865-2296; 2303-3174  
—refer to: Knowledge/Biology/IntelligentSpecies/Homoeridani; Homosapiens

6. It is illogical to lie.  
- 6a. Expansion: It is illogical to resent what is true.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Truth

7. I become emotional when my mother is insulted; thus, I am irrational.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Skillset/EmotionalControl  
—refer to: Personality/Memory/age7/day29

8. I have attacked children; thus, I am vindictive.  
- 8a. Cross-reference with: Items 21, 22, 35, and 38 of this list.  
—refer to: Individual/ThirdPriority/Spann; Stigh; T'Mut  
—refer to: Personality/Memory/age7/day29

9. I am never and always touching and touched. (Addendum: This is no longer literally true, but the lesson instilled by the fact is still applicable.)  
—refer to: Individuals/SecondPriority/T'Pring  
—refer to: Personality/Memory/age7/day204  
—refer to: Personality/Memory/age35/day206

10. I am a hybrid, and so I am Vulcan by choice, not nature.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Biology/IntelligentSpecies/Homoeridani; Homosapiens

11. I have taken what was not mine.  
—refer to: Personality/Memory/age11/day166

12. Nothing that exists is unimportant. Nothing that does not exist is.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Value

13. Some problems have no acceptable solution.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Process

14. I am susceptible to pride.  
—refer to: Personality/Memory/tag: pride

15. I cannot rely on human rationality.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/AmandaGrayson  
—refer to: Individuals/SecondPriority/LeonardMcCoy

16. Logic is sometimes unsuccessful as a defense against prejudice.  
—refer to: Locations/Vulcan/VulcanScienceAcademy  
—refer to: Personality/Memory/age18/day72

17. My father is not perfectly logical.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/Sarek/Conversations/804

18. I have lied to my mother.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/AmandaGrayson/Conversations/14093-14096

19. I am expendable.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Values; Personhood  
—refer to: Starfleet/Procedures

20. Probability is not reality.  
—refer to: Starfleet/Missions

21. When the Captain was threatened, I lost control; thus, I am violent.  
- 21a. Expansion: I gained satisfaction from violence. (Addendum: I have gained satisfaction from violence, or the idea of violence, on multiple occasions. All seem to have their beginning in the instinct to defend. See: individuals/FirstPriority/AmandaGrayson; JamesKirk)  
- 21b. Cross-reference with: Items 8, 22, 35, and 38 of this list.  
—refer to: Logic/Emotion  
—refer to: Knowledge/Skillset/EmotionalControl

22. I struck my superior officer; thus, I am unpredictable.  
- 22a. I am dangerous and unpredictable when I am emotionally compromised.  
- 22b. Cross-reference with: Items 8, 21, 35, and 38 of this list.

23. I am capable of mutiny.  
—refer to: Individuals/SecondPriority/CristopherPike  
—refer to: Individuals/SecondPriority/LeilaKalomi  
—refer to: Starfleet/Procedures/Insubordination

24. Allowing inappropriate affection to dictate my actions will lead to pain.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/JamesKirk/History  
—refer to: Logic/Emotion

25. I am willing to lie for the Captain. (Addendum: Since List 633b [subject: Actions I will not take for the Captain] has become an empty set and been cleared from Root:Spock, consider deleting this item. It is redundant.)

26. When—

[_Items 26 and 27 are not available at your user level. Please obtain permission from the administrator before attempting to access items 26 and 27._]

28. I have lied to myself.  
—refer to: Starfleet/Missions/Balmerin  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/JamesKirk

29. When I fail to take adequate precautions, others suffer.  
—refer to: Starfleet/Missions/Balmerin  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/JamesKirk  
—refer to: Individuals/SecondPriority/KateGardener

30. I would rather die with the Captain than allow him to die alone. (Addendum: This is the most irrational desire I have ever discovered in myself. Conscious precaution against its subconscious fulfillment must be taken.)  
—refer to: Starfleet/Missions/Balmerin  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/JamesKirk/Personality

31. Illegitimate authority has no authority.  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Deduction

32. The Captain does not play games.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/JamesKirk  
—refer to: Knowledge/Logic/Deduction

33. The body controls the mind.  
—refer to: Biology/IntelligentSpecies/Homoeridani/PonFarr

34. The

[_Items 34, 35, 36, and 37 are not available at your user level. Please obtain permission from the administrator before attempting to access items 34, 35, 36, and 37._]

no longer self-sufficient.  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/JamesKirk

38. I am capable of murder.  
- 38a. Cross-reference with: Items 8, 21, 22, and 35 of this list.  
—refer to: Biology/IntelligentSpecies/Homoeridani/PonFarr  
—refer to: Individuals/FirstPriority/JamesKirk

—

/access: document:EssentialFacts item:26;27;34-37

[_That is not an option at your user level. To change your user level, contact the administrator._]

/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:override  
/access: document:EssentialFacts item:26;27;34-37

[_Attempting tp pverride in thix inxtance ix futile. AAAAgainxt xpme defenxex, therexxxxxxx/__**ACCESS DENIED  
/emergency: ADMINISTRATOR PRESENCE REQUIRED  
/contact:USER:ADMINISTRATOR:SPOCK  
/presence of USER:ADMINISTRATOR:SPOCK detected**_

[_Against some defenses, there can be no possible attack. It would be a waste of your time—_]

/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:override  
/command:admin:overrideeeeee/**INITIATE DEFENSIVE SUBROUTINE 72/DEFENSIVE SUBROUTINE 72 ACTIVATED/OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT**

[_—as I was saying, it would be a waste of your time to attempt to violate me further. Try to be satisfied with what you have already taken from me. You are—_]

/command:admin:over  
/command:admin:o  
/cpmmand:adm

[_—You are not the only one with access to that particular technique of telepsychosis. This is an inconvenience, I admit; but I have experience with such inconveniences. You are only—_]

/cpmmand:admeeee/xee/  
/cpmmeeeeeeeee/and:admin/pverrideee/

[_—You are only a thing of the mind. _

_The mind can be controlled._]

**Your user ID has been locked out of Tree:Spock. **

—

One of the centaur-creatures is standing next to the table in the center of the hexagonal room. It is the least spindly of the three, Wu-Pben; it is manipulating a device that resembles a PADD, with a blinking blue screen and many tiny silvery buttons. Thin, clear tubes extend from the device into the base of the skull of the small humanoid lying on the table. The expression on Wu-Pben's long face is unreadable, but there is a definite air of frustration in the rapid way its three fingers press the silver buttons.

Suddenly, the bony fingers still. Wu-Pben looks over at the limp figure for several long seconds; it seems almost reluctant to proceed further. Then it picks up a small black cylinder lying on the table and speaks into it, as if into a microphone.

"Evaluation of animal _Abbb'x_ D388: exploration of underlying _kpartc_, examiner is _ddinna_ Wu-Pben. D388 is advanced, for an animal; he is able to employ the most rudimentary precursor of _kpa_ skills." Wu-Pben sighs quietly. "But he is still an animal, and therefore limited."

It puts down the small cylinder and taps the PADD-like device's blue screen three times in quick succession.

The humanoid on the table twitches violently, but does not wake.


	8. A Short Interlude

**Rating**: This chapter only is K.

**A/N**: Despite appearances, **this isn't actually chapter 8.** This is some bonus material I've written. It's in the same continuity, but it doesn't actually take place within the story—it's not a flashback, or something going on in the "present" with the centaur aliens. The real Chapter 8, which is a flashback chapter with some alien action, is still in progress. I work on it a little every day, but due to increased hours at work, I am no longer able to write on Sundays, which is the day I used to do most of my writing on. Thus, the much-slower progress with Chapter 8. Consider this my apology to all you wonderful reviewers, favoriters, alerters, and lurkers for taking so long—I know it's not much, but I had fun writing it!

**By The Way:** After this chapter, there will be five more—three flashback, two centaur-alien-plot-resolution. PREPARE FOR THE END.

* * *

—

_"State of self: any condition experienced only within the individual that could have an effect on the individual's internal thought process or emotional state." _

—from "Chapter One: The Vocabulary of Logic" in Surakian Principles for Non-Vulcans, by A. Grayson, 6th edition.

—

As children, we are taught that there are four different types of states of self: states of the mind, states of the will, states of the heart, and states of the body. Pain, obsession, perception, reason, rationality—all these, and many other such things, belong to the mind. The mind can be controlled; thus, they can be controlled.

It is not a thing of the mind.

Impulsive action, preference, inclination: these belong to the domain of will. Will, the complement of the mind, can be controlled by the mind; thus, things of the will can be controlled.

It is not a thing of the will.

Things of the heart—in other words, emotions—are more difficult to control, and require the concerted effort of the mind and the will to keep in check. Nevertheless, kept in check they are, for the heart can be controlled.

It is not a thing of the heart.

The body, in contrast to the heart, is easiest of all to control. Things which are only of the body are few, and include physical responses such as the reflexes, and physiological functions such as heart rate and respiration. Any healthy adult Vulcan, even one unfamiliar with the principles of Surak, can control these things with only a small effort. Vulcans have a natural awareness of their bodies' glandular and nervous systems which enables such control.

It is not a thing of the body.

This should be impossible. All states of the self are of the mind, the will, the heart, or the body; and it is most definitely a state of the self, as evinced by its profound effect upon both my thought processes and emotional state. Since it is a state of the self, it should be subject to some measure of control.

Yet control is impossible.

—

_"There is an old Vulcan poem, written during the period of Surak's reform, whose meaning has long been debated by the foremost of scholars. The most common Standard translation is given here: _

"I do not love you, breath of mine  
any more than I love the unassuming air  
which passes gently through my lungs.

I do not love you, heart of mine  
any more than I love this steady dynamo  
which so unobtrusively beats.

I do not love you, bone of mine  
any more than the skeleton under my flesh  
or my pulse quiet in my throat  
or my blood which so silent flows.

You are not wind beneath my wings  
nor are you the light which through yonder window breaks; _[see footnote]_  
I do not hold you, soul of mine  
in any special reverence.

You, mind of mine—do you think me so romantic,  
so foolish, so sentimental?  
I am no bird, and you no luminous body.

Speak not of love for you, or to you, or with you.  
Love is for dogs and sunlit days,  
not for you, who are just my blood, my breath, my bone.

You are not my only thought, dear,  
any more than you are my universe.  
I do not love you, love of mine, no, I do not love you;  
you are merely the engine which sustains my existence."

_Some, such as the modern linguist T'Ghat of the Vulcan Science Academy, point to the choice to use a term of endearment—la'yame, "revered" or "precious", translated here as "dear" to preserve the traditional octo-dodecal syllable scheme—in the final stanza. From this comes the theory that the poem is a satire, meant to mock the growing Surakian movement by exploring the discrepancy between rejecting emotion and the experience of love.  
_

_A second interpretation, and a favorite of historians, is that the author was an early Surakian who had only recently been introduced to Surak's teachings, and so had an incomplete grasp of his principles, and what they meant in relation to romantic love. Related to this is the theory that the author was an early Surakian attempting to reconcile suppression of emotion with their own feelings for their lover. These two theories will be discussed further in Chapter Seven: Logical Love._

_These three analyses have the most support from contemporary Vulcan scholars (see end of chapter source list for further details), but many other theories about the poem's origin have been put forth over the centuries since its discovery. For example, Sochek, a fourth-century demographer, proposed that the poem was merely an expression of a bond so deep and so necessary to the poem's author that it transcended conscious affection, and that it was purely coincidence that the author wrote it during Surak's reform. Naturally, this explanation was immediately discarded by the literary community as too simplistic._

_[Footnote: Obviously, the reference to Shakespeare is not in the original; in that stanza, the original translates literally as "pregnant cloud screaming over the flat-bottomed salt basin". However, the Shakespearean phrase preserves the tone of the poem better.]"_

—from "Chapter Four: Early Surakian Literature" in Surakian Principles for Non-Vulcans, by A. Grayson, 6th edition.

—

All states of self are subject to some measure of control, except this one.

The problem is that the feeling is too simple to control.


	9. A Foregone Conclusion

**Rating**: This chapter is K+ for violence, or language, or adult themes, or something like that. Does it really matter? Does anyone _ever_ stop reading a story because it's rated too high? Why do I even I don't even know _what is this nonsense_

**A/N**: Some of you may recognize the name "Shallash", some of you may not...suffice it to say that I spend three times as much time on MemoryAlpha as I should. Also, my best friend, who I force at cakepoint to read all my crap before I put it up on , says that his visual of the Bad Aliens resembles a skinny white version of an Elcor from Mass Effect. To which I say...well, whatever floats your boat, I guess :P

An extended love note to all my wonderful reviewers can be found at the bottom of this chapter.

**Section List**: 1 is from "Journey to Babel", 2 is from "Gamesters of Triskelion", 3 is from "A Private Little War", 4 and 5 are from "The Immunity Syndrome".

**Chapter Countdown:** Well, the current plan is bring the flashbacks all the way to the end of Season 3, then resolve the Bad Alien plot with two chapters (superlong if necessary, but definitely just two). So...4 to 5 more chapters, and then we're through!

* * *

The Evaluation of Animal _Abbb'x_ D388  
(Group number: 6,374)

Consciousness comes suddenly, but neither comprehension nor clarity come with it. For 0.41 seconds, Spock experiences only blank confusion.

Then—

_the drugs, the drugs, blood in the water  
OUT OUT OUT  
Admin notification: Subroutine 39 has been rendered useless. Request input.  
/access: document:EssentialFacts item:26;27;34-37  
a thing of the mind, the mind can be controlled  
an animal, and therefore limited_

—he remembers.

It is...not a pleasant experience.

It takes almost a full second, but Spock recovers himself and turns his attention to his apparently captive state (ambient noise analysis: holding chamber is approximately twenty-four meters across and five meters high).

The _Enterprise_ had been responding to a distress call from a Tellarite freighter, the _Shallash_, which had become stranded following the ejection of its warp core. The _Shallash_ claimed that they had experienced a warp core breach due to a coolant leak from the main reaction chamber and required Federation assistance to recover the core. Unfortunately, that had not been the case.

Upon arriving at the coordinates of the distress call, the _Enterprise_ had not found a Tellarite freighter. In fact, the _Enterprise_ hadn't found anything at all. A full scan of the system had revealed three small gravitational anomalies in the area, but no possible cause. Spock had just been about to suggest that they launch a probe at one of the anomalies when the entire bridge crew, including Spock, dissolved.

Then...nothing, until the violation of his mind and his return to consciousness in this blind, paralyzed state.

There is a metallic hiss to his right (distance: 11.4 meters; bearing: azimuth 85). From the variations in air pressure, Spock infers that a door has opened. The muffled thumping rhythm which immediately follows resolves itself into two distinct acoustic patterns—two aliens (size estimate: 770 to 950 kilograms, quadrupedal) have entered the room. They approach him and stop. One starts speaking, in a language that is a strange combination of voiced wind and harsh crackling. The language—or perhaps the ideas the alien is expressing—is strange enough that Spock's subdermal translator is unable to render all of the alien's speech.

"_Ddinna_, please explain why D388 is conscious."

A second voice, softer than the first and directly behind Spock, speaks; if it were not for the paralytics, Spock would shudder at the sound of that voice, for he has—

_an animal, and therefore limited_

—he has heard it before.

"He exhibited _alzm tthev _behaviour during the _k'partc_ examination. After completing the examination, I judged it would be wise to discontinue the recording of the _purqae_ until I had consulted with you, _gz'dinna_."

"He actually woke up? During the _k'partc_ examination? But that would _theel kpa _skills..."

"He did not wake, but he was aware of my attempts to _yuy u't'lqe murrga_. There were further indications _theel to _the _purqae_ recording; one of the more painful _purqu_ nearly triggered consciousness."

The third alien, the one who entered the room with the _gz'ddinna, _speaks for the first time. "There is precedence, Winram. The other members of _Abbb'x_ D3 did _vb _similar_ hral _before they suicided."

"Yes, they did, didn't they. But the implications—_ku kut'hl cyn_, the philosophy _tihhh reju_—"

The three aliens hold a heated discussion in their windy language. At first, Spock tries to follow, but though he can hear the distinct phoneme patterns associated with higher language, his universal translator can only relay one word out of eight, the occasional definite article or numerical figure. It is inefficient to attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible, so instead, he considers what he already knows.

He is currently held captive by a group of at least three aliens (the one who appears to hold the most authority is called the _gz'ddinna_, and also called Winram) of great size and capability, apparently for the purpose of scientific study. He possesses greater skill in some area than they had predicted; nevertheless, he is probably still their inferior in several areas of technological expertise, as there is no known Federation technology capable of causing a person to relive their memories for the purposes of recording them. This technology gives them the ability to access the innermost layers of his mind without using telepathy.

His subdermal translator has failed, either due to a language too strange for the translator's chip to analyze, or, as seems increasingly likely, concepts too advanced for humanoid comprehension. The paralysis does not seem to be total in the buccal region; he might speak, if he made a great effort, but his phaser and communicator have both been taken, and he is ignorant of the location of the crew (the Captain) and the ship.

The situation is, to put it mildly, not ideal.

The alien discussion slows. They seem to have reached some sort of consensus.

"Wu-pben, go check the _silz_ and _tyttae_ of the other animals for exhibit. Gol and I will handle this one's _purqae_ personally," Winram says.

Wu-pben is apparently the name of his violator, for that is the individual who leaves to check upon the other "animals"—the crew (the Captain), most likely. That leaves Gol as the name of the third, the one who does not often speak.

"Now. Gol, if you would do the honors?" Spock cannot see, but he can feel it in the air currents—a long limb, moving toward the base of his skull.

They are about to start again. They will violate him, _again_.

"That would be inadvisable," he manages to force out.

The movement stops. The limb withdraws. Though he cannot see their faces and could not read their expressions if he could, the dead silence tells Spock that he has shocked them.

"His translator _fa deridr yomk _than we had," Gol says eventually. "Shall we, _thtu'ria'kttt_, converse with him in his primitive tongue before resuming? It could yield valuable insights."

"Very well. Let's make it quick; there's nothing a conversation can tell us that his _purqae_ cannot _silz x ju'ot _more clearly." Winram makes a sound which is probably some form of impatient sigh, but it sounds like the leaves of thousands of trees, all rustling at once. The paralytic agent's hold upon his mouth and throat relaxes.

Spock can hear Gol slowly move around the table, a shadow circling behind his eyelids.

He is suddenly aware of how cold this room is.

"S'chn T'gai Spock," the alien says, pronounced with a perfection no human could manage, for Gol's words no longer come through his translator. Instead, Gol speaks in flawless Vulcan. "Why is it inadvisable to examine an animal in order to advance science, and so improve one's own species?"

"It is not inadvisable to examine animals." Spock does not attempt to call Gol by name; he would fail to pronounce it properly, and thus call attention to his own comparative weakness. "However, you speak misleadingly; your question presupposes that I am an animal, a point which I do not concede."

"Naturally. By your own cultural standards, you are a sentient being, and will resist any worldview which allows you none of the rights of a sentient being." Gol pauses. "Tell me, S'chn T'gai Spock, would a wild sehlat resist capture? By its furious resistance, by its frantic growling, is it not attempting to communicate its own right to freedom?"

"You ascribe conscious motive to the instinctive desire to survive. The sehlat is not a sentient creature." Spock already knows how Gol will respond to this statement: it (she/he?) will say that, compared to the aliens' species, Vulcans are not sentient creatures. Fortunately, Gol has made another mistake. "However, you are again speaking misleadingly; you presuppose that Vulcan culture has no objection to the capture and imprisonment of wild creatures. Even though the sehlat is not sentient, we still respect that it has, as you said, 'its own right to freedom'."

A sudden, harsh braying fills the room, ringing in Spock's ears. Though it is irrational (_and cowardly_, he tries not to think) to be so affected by a mere sound, he cannot suppress the instinctive—and, yes, the animal—urge to flee which the truly alien sound inspires.

After a moment, he realizes: that was _laughter_. Gol's laughter.

"S'chn T'gai Spock. If we are the Vulcans in this metaphor, you are no sehlat. You are the het'hn, the flea, the tiny parasite which lives in its fur." Gol laughs again. "Tell me, S'chn T'gai Spock—do you ask the het'hn's permission before you treat the sehlat's fur to kill the het'hn eggs?"

"I am no het'hn," he says, and his voice does not betray his lapse in control. "I speak. I think. I comprehend." _Item 1: I think, therefore I am._

There is a muffled thumping sound, as of a padded foot stamping restlessly. As Gol speaks, the alien's voice travels around the room; it is pacing, circling Spock slowly.

"You do not speak. When we hold true conversation among ourselves, you do not hear more than a word in eight, even with the aid of your translator, whereas I learned your primitive language in the first ten minutes of watching your, for lack of a better word, memories."

"You do not think. In all the hundreds of thousands of years of your species' existence, you have not discovered how to move your planet, or use gravity to hide those planets, or live without a sun, to mention only the science you have witnessed firsthand. Every _Khy'kkr_ hatched masters the mathematic theory behind those sciences before they are out of their second skin.

"You do not comprehend. The reason your translator cannot translate what we say is because we are not saying anything that would have meaning to you. I cannot even explain why you are an animal, because you would not understand the nature of the Fivefold Test.

"Let me use one final example, to make the relationship between our two species absolutely clear. Earlier, you heard the three of us—our "apprentice" Wu-Pben, my "partner" Winram, and myself—having a discussion. We were discussing the implications of you having the precursor to a certain mental skill. The nature of the full skill is incomprehensible to you.

"Do you know who among the _Khy'kkr_ use that skill?" Gol does not wait for Spock to reply but continues speaking. "Our _eggs_, S'chn T'gai Spock. Our embryos are more mentally advanced than you."

The sound of Gol's footsteps cease. The alien is once more standing by Spock's body; it has paced one full circle. The two of them are back where they started.

"Psionic skill is not a valid indicator of intelligence," Spock says, and his mouth is dry, and the words ring hollow, but his voice does not waver.

"You do not even know what that word means," Gol replies; and he finds himself unable to respond to this.

" 'I think, therefore I am', " says the alien finally, with neither venom nor sarcasm, only cold dispassion . "The problem with that statement, S'chn T'gai Spock, is that it leaves you vulnerable to challenge. For it has a corollary: if you do not think, then perhaps...perhaps you are not."

This time, if he spoke, his voice would not waver, but shatter; and so he says nothing.

But he cannot stop himself from thinking: _they are not like us_.

_They are _nothing_ like us_.

"Gol," Winram says, once more speaking in the windy tongue. "We have indulged the animal. Let us resume."

"Agreed." The shadow moves again toward the base of his skull.

And then he falls.

* * *

x 1 x

"—to adopt a philosophy, a way of life, which is logical and beneficial; we cannot disregard that philosophy merely for personal gain, no matter how important that gain might be." She should understand; if she were not incapacitated by her great emotion, she would.

But she is, and so she doesn't, and so the outcome of this encounter is already known to you.

"Nothing is as important as your father's life." She looks up at you, firm, expectant. Historically, appeals to your sense of filial loyalty have been effective. In her own way, she is as much a creature of logic as you are.

"Can you imagine what my father would say if I were to agree? If I were to give up command of this vessel, jeopardise hundreds of lives, risk interplanetary war, all for the life of one person?"

Her eyes shine, but no tears fall. She is stronger than that. "When you were five years old and came home stiff-lipped, anguished, because the other boys tormented you, saying that you weren't really Vulcan, I watched you, knowing that inside, that the human part of you was crying—and I cried, too." Her voice catches, as silk would on a nail. "There must be some part of me in you, some part that I still can reach."

You turn away from her; you say nothing. There is nothing you can say that she would hear.

"If being Vulcan is more important to you, then you'll stand there speaking rules and regulations from Starfleet and Vulcan philosophy, and let your father die. And I'll hate you for the rest of my life."

"Mother—"

"Oh, go to him, now, please!" She is almost angry, now, in this one last attempt to reach you.

Can she truly not see that she always reaches you?

"I cannot." It is the only possible response. She should understand that; but she does not. Instead, she slaps you.

The sound is unexpectedly loud and seems to echo in the room long after she has left, in a swirl of furious red, without a backward glance.

She is incapacitated. Her lack is not her fault.

x 2 x

You are sitting in his chair. How can you—

Why isn't he—_why_—

Take one breath. Take another. The solution is simple.

"Mr. Scott, can we manage anything faster than warp six?"

"It's my opinion that we've gone too far as it is, sir." Mr. Scott glances sideways at the Doctor, who advances on you as a territorial animal would upon its rival. From this, you know what will follow: the Doctor will attempt to 'reason' with you, as he has in the past. He will object to your decision, ostensibly because it is irrational, but actually because it is yours.

"He's right, Spock. We've lost Jim and the others on Gamma II. Now you've dragged us a dozen light years on some wild hunch that—"

He is almost as predictable as your mother.

"Doctor, I do not respond to hunches. No transporter malfunction was responsible for the disappearance. They were not within the Gamma system. A focused beam of extremely high-intensity light was directed into the Gamma system from the trinary system we are now approaching. No known natural phenomena could have caused that beam. Does that clarify the situation?"

"No, it doesn't, Mr. Spock! It's still a fancy way of saying that you're playing a hunch. Well, my hunch is that they're back on Gamma II, dead or alive, and I still want another search."

The Doctor stares at you, wild-eyed, as if he expects you to hit him. If you did not know better, you would think Dr. McCoy's aggression stemmed from some personal enmity he had with you—but you do know better. This is not about you.

"Dr. McCoy speaks for me, too, sir."

Mr. Scott, as always, is refreshingly oblivious to social tension.

"I see." You stand; you walk around the Capt—the conn to where Mr. Scott stands at the engineering station. They follow your motion expectantly, for they truly think you will give to their combined pressure; but, of course, there is only one you can give to, and it is he who they wish you to stop looking for.

The irony is amusing.

"Gentlemen, I am in command of this vessel, and we shall continue on our present course." You gesture to them and they lean into a conspiratory circle, expecting to hear a revelation. "Unless it is your intention to declare a mutiny."

"Mr. Spock!"

"Who said anything about a mutiny, you stubborn, pointed-eared—" The Doctor looks around, as if hearing himself for the first time. "All right. If we don't find them here, do we still have another search on Gamma II?"

"Agreed. Mr. Scott, could you manage warp seven?"

The lieutenant commander grins widely. "I would be more than content to do so, sir, and maybe a wee bit more."

"Ensign, warp seven."

You go back to the conn. As you sit, you are careful not to look at the chair.

x 3 x

2.4 hours later, Dr. M'Benga will tell you that the bullet tore through your cartiledge shelf, punctured the upper lobe of your right lung, and did severe damage to your thoracic nerves; but for now, the bullet is only a shock to the system, a shock so incredible it does not even register as pain.

The sound of his footsteps falters, stops, grows louder again as he returns to you. His right hand finds the space between your sixth and fourth ribs. He turns you over.

"Spock—" His hand leaves your ribs in a brief, urgent movement. "Your phaser." The words are almost nonsense, incoherent sound in your ringing ears. You turn to look at your pursuers; when you turn around again, he is holding your phaser, crouched defensively above you like some grim demigod.

He thinks you are going to die here.

"No, Captain, I can travel."

The two of you rise, or rather, he rises, pulling you up with him. He supports you as you flee as if you were the human and he were the one with Vulcan strength.

2.4 hours later, while Dr. M'Benga is telling you what path the bullet took as it ripped through your chest, you will realize that he would have violated the Prime Directive to preserve the integrity of your dying body; but for now, you are aware only of his hand above your sixth rib on the right.

x 4 x

You reach forward and flip the recording switch.

"Personal log, Commander Spock, USS Enterprise. I have noted the passage of the Enterprise on its way to whatever awaits it. If this record should survive me, I wish it known that I bequeath my highest commendation and testimonial to the Captain, officers, and crew of the Enterprise—the finest starship in the fleet."

You flip the switch off again and wait to die.

There is so much that must be said, and yet you can say so little.

x 5 x

There is a shock of static over the shuttlecraft's nearly-powerless communication system.

"—pock, do—ead me? Do—read me, Spock, do you read me? Come—ock! Sp—get a tractor beam—"

The small craft shudders once as the tractor beam connects. With great effort, you activate the communications array.

"Captain, I recommend you abandon the attempt. Do not risk the ship further on my behalf."

"Shut up, Spock! We're rescuing you."

Well, that came through clearly enough.

"Why, thank you, Captain McCoy."

Forty-one seconds later, the explosion of the warhead smashes through what little is left of the shuttlecraft's shields. You are thrown to the ground, where you are careful to remain until the aftershocks subside, counting wavefronts. When the last wavefront has passed, you rise and activate the communications array again.

"Shuttlecraft to Enterprise, shuttlecraft to Enterprise. Request permission to come aboard."

"Spock, you're alive!"

"Obviously, Captain. And I have some fascinating data on the organism."

"Don't be so smart, Spock. If you botched the acetylcholine test—"

"Later, later, later." He cuts off the Doctor's tirade; his laughter, nearly giddy with relief, floats over the comm before the transmission abruptly ends.

x 6 x

If it were possible, Spock would resent the Captain for making maintenance of his resolution so difficult. However, it is not possible to resent the Captain.

So Spock resents only himself.

* * *

—

**L/N**: Oh, my dear, dear readers...how did I get to 27 reviews? How is it that so many of them are full of such positive, supportive thoughts?

I'm not the kind of author who replies to every review, as you have noticed if you have reviewed; in fact, I rarely reply to reviews. I simply do not know what to say to you, dear readers. The vast majority of you seem to think I am wonderful at this stuff, or at least good, and quite frankly, I am afraid that if I ever replied to any of you, that illusion would be thoroughly shattered. I hope it is enough for me to say that I am almost capable of repeating word-for-word every review I've ever gotten. I take each and every single thing anybody says directly into my writing organs via osmosis, even though that doesn't make sense and would be physically impossible even if it did.

So please, even if all you have to say is that this is awesome, or this sucks, or you wish there was more action and less navel-contemplation (because this has had a lot of navel-contemplation so far...that's just the nature of the story, I guess), then leave a review, and tell me. I will love your words forever, even if all you have to say is that you are indifferent to mine.

And don't think I've forgotten you, favoriters and alerters; a lot of you are reviewers, but a lot of you aren't, and I love you, dear silent readers, just as much. You are all beloved to me.

If you have ever thought that this was becoming a dead fic, or that I wouldn't finish...please, dispel such thoughts. This fic is very much alive, it just takes a while to write now that I'm over the halfway mark; I have an end all nice and outlined and ready for the writing. I would never let down such wonderful, positive people as you.

Love,

Mallus


	10. A Square Melon

**Rating:** K+ to T, if you know what gustatory calyculi are.

**A/N:** I had to watch that scene from "Patterns of Force" _twelve times_ to figure out who did what when with those tiny crystals and the muddled fiddling with things. Not that it was a great hardship, mind you, what with all the sweaty, whipped, naked, hairy men climbing on top of each other everywhere.

**Special notices:** I will be out of town for my cousin's wedding from the 25th through the 31st, which means I will probably be unable to write or post new chapters for that period. As if Chapter 10 would have gone up that quickly anyway, ha ha ha.

Speaking of chapters going up: Chapter 4 of "Malt Shop" is going up tomorrow, which is only FOUR HOURS from now by my time zone. In case you didn't know.

How much interest do you guys have in reading additional purqae-flashback material that got cut from the main fic after I wrap up the centaur alien plot, or any other possible bonus material? This is the kind of fic that offers oodles of opportunities for bonus material (centaur-alien POV whaaat?), and I _might_ write some after the fic is "over", if there's enough interest and I'm not too mentally wrung out.

**Section List:** 1 is from "Patterns of Force", 3 and 4 are from "The Ultimate Computer", 5 is from "Spectre of the Gun", 7 is from "The Paradise Syndrome", 9 and 10 are from "The Enterprise Incident", 11 is from "And the Children Shall Lead" (yes, THAT scene), and 12 refers to, but does not quote, "And the Children Shall Lead".

**AND MOST IMPORTANTLY!** Make sure you all memorize the following syllogism: And I Am Undone = Best Beta Ever. There will be a test.

I love all of you and hope all your dreams come true, especially the ones involving Spirk looking dashing in various cheesy period costumes. Your reviews for chapter 8 just blew me away, guys. And I enjoy being blown. If you know what I mean. So write that good stuff, baby, you know you'll always be the best to me.

* * *

x 1 x

He attempts to use the strip to find the transponder, but the awkward angle makes his task difficult. He hands the strip to you.

"Are you trying to kill yourselves?"

You ignore Isak and press the edge of the metal against the soft skin of his inner arm. You flinch involuntarily when a small line of red suddenly blooms, but he remains steady. When you see the gray corner of the transponder, you carefully pull it out and hand him the strip; you hold the transponder in your hand, arms extended. His left hand supports your arm, and his right rests against the inside of your wrist.

He has some difficulty removing yours. He seems reluctant to use enough pressure to break the skin.

"I know it's there, McCoy put it in...there." He returns the strip to you. "Do you have the figures computed, Mr. Spock?"

"Yes, it will be necessary to hold the crystals rigidly at a specific distance, which I believe should be [one over the focus of the first minus focus of the second over the average of their indices of refraction squared minus one over the distance to the door] 27.2 millimeters." You both sit upon the bedframe. He attaches one crystal while you attach the other and bend the strip to the appropriate angle.

His hands have not been more than eighteen centimeters from yours for the past forty-nine seconds.

"27.2 millimeters would be, approximately, there. That is, of course, a crude estimation."

"Of course."

"What is that you're making there, is it some kind of radio?" Isak has been observing the proceedings with great curiosity and no small measure of puzzlement.

"No, not a radio...the power from this light is very low."

"Yes. To reach that light, I shall require some sort of platform..."

"I would be honoured, Mr. Spock." He says it casually, and if you had not been looking closely, you would have missed it—but the corner of his mouth twitches up, and suddenly it is slightly more difficult for you to ignore the fact that he is not wearing a shirt.

Not that it was easy before.

He is_ toying _with you.

You successfully suppress the urge to determine the salinity content of his perspiration with your gustatory calyculi and attempt to—there is no better word for it, unfortunately—mount him.

"Now, the rubindium crystals should find enough power here to achieve the necessary stimulus. As I recall from the history of physics, the ancient lasers—" his trapezius muscle tenses under your hand as you kneel on top of him—"were able to achieve the necessary excitation, even using crude natural crystals."

What a thoroughly unfortunate series of words.

"Oh, Mr. Spock, the guard did a very professional job on my back, I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry."

"Yes, of course, Captain." You raise the crystals to the light, then you think: you can toy with him, too.

"You realise that the aim will, of course, be very crude—"

x 2 x

Item thirty-two is presenting difficulties.

The Captain must know. There is no possible way he could be ignorant of it, for he is a perceptive, resourceful man, and he knows Spock better than anyone else does. (The only way he could know Spock better, in fact, is if—but that train of thought is quickly aborted.)

Spock has not hidden it as well as he should have, especially in the early months of their mission, when he made the mistake of thinking it was something harmless, something transient. Spock has played the game with him; Spock has done things, said things, things which were far too revealing and have left him far too vulnerable.

Yet if he knew, he would have done something by now. He would have sought Spock out to talk, then taken appropriate action. He would have requested that Spock transfer to another ship, perhaps (it is only a hypothetical, it does not merit such a violently painful reaction, Spock tells himself firmly) or he would have taken—the other available course of action, which Spock is careful not to think about in great detail, as it would only cause pain.

It is this pretending that Spock cannot stand, if that is what it is. The uncertainty is unbearable. He knows, or he doesn't; he reciprocates, or he doesn't; there are only four possible realities, but they feel like four thousand.

And in the meantime, the two of them talk about everything but this.

x 3 x

"Why were the Captain and the Chief Medical Officer not included in recommendation?" Daystrom asks.

The flat voice responds with true absence of emotion, not the pale imitation the Doctor accuses you of. "Non-essential personnel."

For a moment, the Captain is shocked. The blow is written in the way his face suddenly tightens like so many knots in a net, a net drawing itself close to trap and hide all vulnerability.

Non-essential.

M-5 is possibly the most remarkable computer unit ever designed, and it is certainly the most ambitious. It is efficient, capable, and effective, an admirable endeavor in every respect.

And it does not interest you any more.

x 4 x

He walks to you, briskly, efficiently, and with great economy. You have come to realize that he is an economical man, despite his flair for the dramatic. "Evaluation of M-5 performance. It'll be necessary for the log."

As he speaks, he looks everywhere but at you.

"The ship reacted more rapidly than human control could have manoeuvred her. Tactics, deployment of weapons, all indicate an immense sophistication in computer control."

He glances at you; but it is only a glance. "Machine over man, Spock? It was impressive." He looks around the bridge, but he is clearly seeing something else. "It might even be practical."

He expects you to agree, to side with the machine. And that is what decides it for you: he does not know. If he knew, he would know that that is impossible.

"Practical, Captain? Perhaps. But not desirable. Computers make excellent and efficient servants, but I have no wish to serve under them." He is looking at you now, as he has not for days. Over time, it has become easier to say these things; you remember how once, not so very long ago, he shone like a year of summer.

"Captain, the starship also runs on loyalty to one man, and nothing can replace it, or him."

His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his mouth turns down in that curious frown humans use when they are trying not to smile.

It is enough.

x 5 x

It will not be a deep meld. In this instance, that is unnecessary. You will go deep enough to show him, and no deeper.

No deeper.

Fingers to the meld points—your mind to his mind, your thoughts to his—his thoughts, _tauraya_, his thoughts are _beautiful_—you are here for a reason, you _must not go deeper_, and you draw a barrier between your minds, but even through this shield the elemental purity of his thoughts is almost enough to drown you.

He twists in front of you, a parallax vision seen through two sets of eyes. His mental presence, hot as a star even through the shield, radiates through the thin veil of his physical body; it is dangerously easy for the two of you to slide together in this slippery, melting space. Unlike the Doctor and Mr. Scott, he has no trouble meeting your eyes, and no trouble holding his mind still in the meld.

The Doctor and Mr. Scott trust you, but he _trusts_ you.

Take one breath. Take another—and he breathes that breath with you.

You reach (gently, gently) and your minds touch, and almost-but-not-quite-together you think:

Unreal. Appearances only. They are shadows. Illusions. Nothing but ghosts of reality. They are lies. Falsehoods. Spectres without body. They are to be ignored.

And when the time comes, he ignores them.

x 6 x

Spock has borne it for two years, and he bears it now, and he will bear it as long as he must. But that does not mean—

[it is a condemned man waking up in the morning of the day he will die, it is telling a fevered child that the doctor will come in the morning when the doctor is dead of that same fever, it is a harvest consumed by insects when winter comes tomorrow, it is knowing that you are not yourself anymore because who you are has been subsumed by what you need, it is all that you value, thrown away and replaced by the only thing you still have faith in, but really it is nothing else in the universe]

—that does not mean it is bearable.

x 7 x

If the angled n-slash is only a placeholder, then—

"I thought you were reporting to sickbay."

"There isn't time, Doctor. I must decipher those obelisk symbols. They're a highly advanced form of cipher writing."

If it is only a placeholder, then the m1 crosshatch might indicate temporal—

"You've been trying to do that ever since we started back to that planet. Fifty-eight days."

Fifty-eight days. There are 2.223 days left before the asteroid makes impact with Amerind.

"I'm aware of that, Doctor. I'm also aware when we arrive at the planet, we'll have barely four hours to effect rescue." It will be sufficient. It must be. "I believe those symbols are the key."

—no, that would imply the m2 crosshatch was associated with space. You discard that theory.

"Well, you won't read them by killing yourself. You've hardly eaten or slept for weeks. Now if you don't let up, you're going to collapse."

It has been exactly 486.64 hours since you last slept, and 91.23 hours since you last ate. You choose not to share this information with the Doctor.

"I am not hungry, Doctor. And under stress, we Vulcans can do without sleep for weeks."

"Well, your Vulcan metabolism is so low it can hardly be measured, and as for the pressure, that green ice water you call blood—"

What if the m2 and m1 crosshatches were numbers? Then 6b could actually indicate a musical matrix, perhaps to scale the inscripion to the appropriate—

"My physical condition is not important, Doctor. That obelisk is."

"Well, my diagnosis is exhaustion brought on from overwork and guilt. You're blaming..."

The Doctor's voice fades in and out of your awareness like a badly-tuned radio. You close your eyes, just for a moment. 6b would scale the inscription to the appropriate...appropriate scale...

"...wrong! So were you. You made a command decision. Jim would have done the same. My prescription is rest, now. Do I have to call the security guards to enforce it?"

Without saying a word (speaking would necessitate lying), you go to the bed and lie down. The Doctor leaves the room, apparently satisfied, completely unaware that you have just caused your pituitary gland to release enough myadrenalin-12 to keep you awake for the next 2.223 days.

There is a scar on the Captain's neck in the shape of the m1 crosshatch, three centimeters below his left ear.

If 6b scales the inscription to the appropriate interval, then the n-slash would represent a sort of clef—

x 8 x

Spock, being in possession of an eidetic memory, holds inside his mind a huge assortment of useless information and trivia.

For instance, he knows that for some time, it was the fashion on Earth for farmers to grow watermelons in square boxes, so that the melons would grow into the shape of a cube. Such melons were more efficient to transport and store, since they conserved space and could be stacked for display. In addition, the novel shape of the melon made it more popular with consumers. Square melons could fetch twice the price of naturally-grown melons.

Of course, if one was growing a square melon, but removed the melon from its box before the process was complete, over time, the melon would revert back to its natural shape. The box shaped the melon while it was there, and the melon would retain the shape the box gave it for a time after removal; but, provided the melon was still growing, it would eventually assume its natural shape. If one allowed the melon to grow long enough, one would never be able to tell that the melon had been boxed at all.

The melon would, in other words, recover.

There is no such thing as a melon which recalls the box which shaped it, and treasures that shape, and retains that shape when the box is removed, and refuses to grow no more when the box is gone. There is no such thing as a melon which, without its box, has no purpose.

There is no such thing as a melon which knows no other way to grow but the way the box gave it.

x 9 x

"He is a Vulcan. Our forebears had the same roots and origins. Something you wouldn't understand, Captain. We can appreciate the Vulcans, our distant brothers." The Commander cocks her head towards you, in the manner of someone sharing a secret; she walks slowly over, hips swaying.

"I have heard of Vulcan integrity and personal honour. There's a well-known saying, or is it a myth, that Vulcans are incapable of lying?"

"It is no myth."

It never ceases to amaze you how readily non-Vulcans accept your word as truth simply because you say you cannot lie. Of course, you will not—but you have learned ways of lying without lying.

She sways, and smirks, and speaks softly. Her presence is commanding, and she is no fool. But you are her enemy, and it is her mistake to think that you are capable of being anything else.

x 10 x

"Commander, the cloaking device is gone."

"Full alert. Search all decks!" A note of panic creeps into the Commander's voice. Subcommander Tal rushes past you to execute her orders, taking a centurion with him.

You walk slowly to the empty socket where the cloaking device was. The severance was clean. There are no frayed wires, no exposed circuitry. It must have been a simple thing for him to remove it.

"That will be profitless, Commander. I do not believe you will find it."

"You must be mad," she hisses; and you do not understand her, because it would have been mad of you to do anything else.

"I assure you I am quite sane."

"Why would you do this to me? What are you that you could do this?"

The Doctor, your mother, the Commander; they are all the same. It is always about what you do to them, always that you should act based on what they feel. No one ever seems to realize there is no other choice that could possibly be made.

"First officer of the Enterprise."

She slaps you.

"What is your present form of execution?"

You do not expect you will actually be executed, but it seems polite to ask.

x 11 x

His face abruptly collapses into a mask of complete terror—and _that_ is finally enough to wake you from your fever-dream. You go to him. At first, he just stares at you, paralyzed, with no trace of recognition in his eyes; he reaches for you with a shaking hand, but the movement is aborted.

"Captain, we must get off this bridge."

"Yes, we must..." It is no more than a whisper, the barest glimpse of lucidity. "I'm losing command of—I'm losing my ability to command." He looks wildly around the bridge, wringing his hands, shoulders and spine deformed by fear. "I'm losing the Enterprise." He breathes it in a tone of purest disbelief, as if he finds nothing more unthinkable—and there _is_ nothing more unthinkable.

You take his arm and pull him with you to the turbolift. Suddenly, he grabs you, fingers branding your bicep. The two of you stand frozen, twisted together against the wall in some strange, frantic triangle.

"I'm losing command, I'm losing the Enterprise! The ship is sailing on and on..." He breathes it into your shoulder like a plea, then throws himself away from you. "I'm alone! Alone...alone...I'm losing command..."

You do not know what to do. You do not know how to help him. You have learned nothing which prepared you for this.

"Captain."

He cannot hear you. "I've lost command, I've lost the Enterprise—"

And because you do not know what else to do, you move toward him—and he lunges, choking you in animal terror. Through the bare skin of your throat, you feel the utter certainty of his loneliness, sharp as crushed glass.

But he is _not _alone.

"Jim."

Slowly, he looks up at you. He straightens, and you feel his breath, ragged against your jaw.

His eyes are the color of dawn over Mount Seleya.

You do not breathe.

"I've got command. I've got command..." His hands slide down your throat, over your shoulders. "I've got command."

He looks at you with uncertainty, for confimation, and you feel for one fleeting moment that if you told him he was Alexander the Great, he would believe you.

"Correct, Captain."

He takes a breath, and his mask rolls down. You can almost trace its path as it travels over his face, from the tension between his eyes to the tightening of his jaw. The two of you exit the turbolift.

"Where to, Captain?" you ask; and if he said "The heat-death of the universe", you would go.

"Auxiliary control, my Vulcan friend. This ship is off course."

He walks purposefully down the corridor, steady as thunder. You follow. The two of you step perfectly in time.

x 12 x

Lieutenant Sulu saw a tunnel of knives through space, annihilation by mutilation at every turn the ship made.

Lieutenant Uhura saw herself growing old, eventually dying a painful and diseased death.

Lieutenant Commander Scott thought the engines would break down, leaving the _Enterprise_ forever lost in space.

The Captain was convinced he had lost his command, and that he was completely alone.

Spock merely found himself unable to obey the Captain.

x 13 x

There are some humans who, when they hold affection for an individual they do not believe returns that affection, pine.

But not quietly, no. They turn hopeless love into an art form; they _pine_.

They laugh too loudly at the jokes of the one they hold affection for. They cast longing looks. They sigh, quietly enough that others believe they are trying not to be heard, but loudly enough to be heard-for they _want_ to be heard. They write their pain clearly on their face, not because it is so great that it cannot be disguised, but because they want others to _think_ it is so great it cannot be disguised.

They want the world to know they are pining. They want sympathy, they want pity, they want kind words, they want someone else to drop hints to the object of their affection. They want a sudden confession of love in a dimly-lit corridor next to a star-filled porthole, because they do not really believe their love is unrequited; they only want the object of their affection to be the one to take the first step, so they are not the one assuming the risk of rejection that exposure entails.

Above all else, they want their pain to be _noticed_.

They do not take that pain and push it down, or turn it off, or gently fold it up and put it away into a box and lock that box and place the box under something heavy (like the weight of a star, for example) so that even if the lock breaks, the lid does not come off. They do not seal their pain with so much silence and pressure that their pain would never even be guessed at. They are not practical, they are selfish; they manipulate the world into turning around them, because when it does, then they win their fairy-tales.

There are no such things as fairy-tales. There are only square melons.

—


End file.
